


The Favour

by R_Cookie



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, The Sandman (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Deviates From Canon, Fix-It of Sorts, Harry Potter Swears, Hedwig's predecessor is a little shit, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Master of Death Harry Potter, Original Percival Graves Swears, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Protection, Slow Burn, There's A Tag For That, World War I, dammit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-01
Updated: 2020-03-02
Packaged: 2020-04-05 18:33:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 28,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19046041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R_Cookie/pseuds/R_Cookie
Summary: Percival is ten years old when his grandfather tries to tell him that he's ensured the greatness of the Graves legacy for him, that he ought to be eternally grateful - but the explanation is hijacked by a stranger who manages to intimidate Chester Graves with an ease never seen before.or: Hadrian (Harry) Potter is the Master of Death, who grants Graves a boon. Nobody could have known that the Deathly Hallows didn't turn you so much into the 'Master of Death' as into the anthropomorphic personification of Death. And so, Death becomes Percival's guardian angel, and Percival does not spit out his cereal.





	1. Act 1.1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cannot believe it has been more than 10 years since I last wrote and published anything for this fandom.
> 
> Admittedly, I'm a terrible WIP-er, but I've finally completed the hell that was my second undergrad degree, and am officially free for two blessed months.
> 
> I've not actually seen either Fantastic Beasts films, but the movie stills were enough for me to firmly believe that Colin Farrell as Percival is a right snack attack, and Ori!Perc/Newt or Credence or Harry literally gave me life throughout the study months, and this plot just kept nagging at me. Unlike the rest of my WIPs, I actually have a much clearer idea of where this story is heading, so I've got high hopes.
> 
> One humbly suggests hitting that subscribe button just in case the update schedule does turn out very irregular.  
> Happy reading! (Half proof-read. Will rectify this in a few hours)

_ 1893 _

Percival’s first memory of _him_ shortly followed his tenth birthday.

He remembers standing just outside his father’s study, muffled voices beyond the closed oak doors unintelligible. It doesn’t matter how he squeezes his eyes shut, _bidding_ himself concentrate on the sounds.

He catches himself just in time as the doors suddenly swing open. His father towers over him, a strange expression on his face that makes the unease in Percival’s chest worsen. His father might as well have drenched him in cold water.

Without a word, he follows the man into the study, eyes flickering to the unexpected presence of his grandfather standing by the fireplace. No sooner does the almost manic edge to the satisfied smile on his grandfather’s face register than Percival’s attention is sharply drawn away.

“This is the child, then?”

Percival does his best not to gape, he truly does. But the green eyes of the stranger who comes into view as soon as his father steps to the side are unnaturally bright - and oh, how they seem to sear into his soul. He fails to stop the violent flinch.

“Come here, boy,” his grandfather orders, cutting through the panic that had begun to creep its way through. As it is, his throat feels too tight, too dry, his heart hammering against his chest.

“Have a care, Chester, his wariness is entirely justified,” the stranger quietly rebukes.

Percival watches, with no small amount of hysteria, the way the muscle twitches as his grandfather grinds his teeth. Nobody speaks to grandfather like that.

“You’re soon to enter Ilvermorny, aren’t you, _boy_?” grandfather says with a stubborn jut to his jaw, though his eyes do not shift from Percival’s pale face to meet the stranger’s.

Percival nods. “Yes, sir.”

“Then it means the time has come for you to begin accepting your responsibilities as heir to the Graves legacy.”

There is a barely audible scoff. Percival chews on his lower lip, fighting desperately to keep his expression as neutral as possible – or at least maintain the bludgeoned rabbit look he resignedly acknowledges in the back of his mind.

“Be grateful, child, for I’ve secured for you the greatest asset that shall ever ensure the Graves name is never forgotten. We are of the Original Twelve, boy, and – ”

Percival is spared from hearing the two hundred and fifty-seventh rendition of that particular rant by a deliberately audible mutter.

“Sweet Merlin’s saggy ba—”

Wide-eyed, a giggle escapes Percival. He catches the stranger’s piercing gaze by accident, but there is a sliver of warmth in them this time.

“Allow me a moment to speak to… Percival, isn’t it? Let me explain the mess to him in private, yes? I’m certain we all have far more pressing matters to tend to than stand here all day waiting for you to get to the point, Chester.”

“Absolutely not! There must be a third party for the Unbreakable Vow –”

The stranger impatiently flicks his fingers, and the words abruptly cease though his grandfather’s mouth continues moving.

“Let us not forget, Chester. This is a _boon_ I am _allowing_ you. Do not make the mistake of thinking I am yours to command. You have already done much to wear my patience,” the stranger said, all the more unnerving for the softness of his voice. “With what has been agreed, you effectively transferred the entitlement to the boon to your grandson, and so I shall speak to _him_. Leave us. Please.”

Percival watches his father herd his grandfather out the room, the lines of his body tense, his expression as frustratingly incomprehensible as it had been when he first stepped into the study. The closing of the doors should not sound so loud.

“Percival.”

He does not fidget. There is _some_ dignity he manages to salvage.

Warily, he turns around.

The stranger has settled himself on the rug, the attempt to put him at ease glaringly obvious. It is perhaps a touch patronising, but Percival only feels gratitude.

“Will you join me, please?”

He mimics the informality of the stranger, folding himself down onto the rug.

In the interim silence, Percival finally _looks_ at the man, takes in the tousled black hair, the squarish features. An altogether unassuming appearance, if it weren’t for those eyes.

“You may call me Hadrian,” the stranger begins. He offers no smile, merely waits for Percival to give some form of acknowledgement. He quickly nods.

“The details, I’m afraid, we shall wait until you are older, most likely when you turn seventeen. But the short of it is this – by virtue of my own carelessness, I find myself _grateful_ for some assistance your grandfather provided me,” Hadrian says, managing to make the word ‘grateful’ sound like an insult. “And thus, I offered him a boon. He seeks to have us bound in marriage and with an unbreakable vow, but frankly, that is beyond my goodwill to extend, and he is mired in the misconception that it is a _debt_ I owe him, rather than a _favour_.”

“Then – ” Percival cuts himself off, mortified that he had even begun to interrupt the stranger.

“No, go on. It’s alright,” Hadrian says.

“Well, if it’s just a favour you owe him, why even bother honouring it? It’s… it’s clear you’re not exactly fond of each other, notthatanyoneisactuallyfondofgrandfather,” Percival says, murmuring the last bit under his breath. Though, not quite quietly enough if the small quirk to Hadrian’s lips are an indication.

“If it were a boon he sought for _himself_ , then you are right, I would have hardly bothered in the end. But he seeks it for _you_. Ridiculous unbreakable vow, marriage bond and somehow advantaging the Graves name aside, at the core, _I_ construe it as a demand to ensure your safety. And _that_ – that is something I would not mind ensuring. Several decades worth of offering you protection is but a blip in time to me,” he says dismissively, as if his words ought to make sense to Percival. Hadrian looks younger than his _father_.

“You intend to become an Auror, I assume? Reclaim the position of Director of Magical Security that your father failed to keep to the Graves line?”

Percival stiffens, unsure how he feels about the unabashed slight against his father. “Yes, sir.”

“ _’Hadrian’_ ,” the man repeats. “Mm, then you could definitely do with added protection. Cards on the table, I will not be bound by an unbreakable vow. I’m not entirely sure it would even work on me. But you have my word that you shall have my protection, and _this_.”

From nothing, a necklace materialises in Hadrian’s palm. A strange symbol. An old symbol.

“The… Deathly Hallows?”

Green eyes blink at him. It is the first expression Percival sees that isn’t the blankness Hadrian has worn for most of the meeting. He gives himself a pat on the shoulder.

“I came across it in one of the books in father’s library.”

“How unexpected,” Hadrian mutters distractedly. “Well, that makes things a little easier. Do you know the lore?”

“The Master of Death?”

Hadrian hums in agreement. “The Master of Death. An incredibly misleading title, I assure you.”

“What do you mean?” Percival asks.

Hadrian says nothing, merely tilts his head to the side, watching him. Watching… and watching, until the dragot _drops_.

Percival scrunches his nose in annoyance, he cannot help it. “I may be ten years old, sir, but there’s no need to lie to me.”

Green eyes widen, delight bafflingly suffusing across the impassive face. “There aren’t many things within your current capabilities that I could ask you to do to prove what I am, I’m afraid. But such is the truth. I am no _Master_ of Death. I am Death. And, truly, I am rarely in the business of trying to prove my being to anyone.”

“They believe you, though,” Percival observes, raising a brow at Hadrian. “What convinced them?”

“It might have been the way I absorbed the Killing Curse before their eyes.”

Percival scrunches his nose again.

Hadrian sighs.

“I really am on a tight schedule, little one. Suffice for now, if you have need of me, just grasp the pendant and think of me. Know that if your grandfather persists with the arranged marriage idea, it will ultimately be your decision. A mortal alias is easy enough to create, but I hardly see the point given that I shall only visit you once a year. I have my duties, you understand. The only one to suffer would be you, Percival, when you ought to have the freedom to find an actual partner.”

Hadrian makes to stand.

“Well! I must go. Remember the necklace. We will renegotiate the terms of your protection when you’re older. And I shall see you in a year.”

Without so much as a by your leave, Hadrian dematerialises.

He does not disapparate. The wards prevent that within the manor itself.

He _dematerialises_.

Percival stares at the necklace in his hand.

 

\---

 

_ 1894 _

Amidst the excitement and distraction of his first term at Ilvermorny, Percival quite forgets all about the annual visit by his supposed ‘guardian angel’.

(The first time Percival offhandedly thinks of the title, he almost chokes on his cereal.)

It comes in the first week of December, while Percival is lounging on his bed, a book propped on his chest.

“That can’t be comfortable,” a voice suddenly says, just as the foot of his bed dips down.

Percival does not shriek. But it is a near thing. He fumbles poorly for his wand on the bedside table.

“You forgot about me, didn’t you?” Surprisingly, it doesn’t actually sound like an accusation.

Percival gives his wand up for a lost cause, and just focuses on scrambling upright. Just past Hadrian’s shoulder, he sees his housemate gaping at the man.

“Um,” he eloquently begins. Hadrian follows his line of sight, looking over his shoulder towards the only other boy currently in the dorm. Hadrian gives a languid snap of his fingers, and the boy falls back onto his pillows.

“Please tell me you didn’t kill him,” Percival whispers. He doesn’t know why he whispers.

“Why on earth would I create more work for myself?” Hadrian replies dryly. “I put him to sleep and obliviated him. No harm done.”

“No harm done…” Percival wheezes.

“How are you liking school? Ilvermorny is rather different from my experience. Not sure it’s quite as pretty, to be honest.”

“Your experience?” Percival asks, latching onto the first thing that stands out to him, as unmoored as he is with this whirlwind of a visit.

“I was educated at Hogwarts. Once upon a time,” Hadrian says placidly.

“Hogwarts. In Scotland? ‘Death’ was educated at a school in Scotland.”

“I _was_ human once, Percival. Before the Hallows came into my possession,” Hadrian says, like it ought to have been the most obvious thing in the bloody world. Well, excuse you.

“It’s been nice to be away from home,” Percival admits, instead of the snark that had been on the tip of his tongue.

“Chester?”

Percival nods, sighing.

“Is it unbearable? When you’re back home?”

Percival lifts his head from where he had rested against his drawn-up knees. He meets the solemn gaze.

What Hadrian says without saying grows heavier in the silence.

“You’re not… You’re not joking at all, are you?”

“I gave you my word. I may not be omnipresent, but to the best of my abilities, no harm shall befall you.”

“It’s nothing I cannot handle,” is what Percival eventually settles on.

Hadrian says nothing for a long moment.

“Alright. Met anybody interesting?” Percival sees the topic-switch for what it is and gratefully takes it with both hands.

“Yes. Seraphina Picquery. She’s a Horned Serpent. Terribly annoying, but she’s brilliant –”

 

\---

 

_ 1898 _

The years trundle along in a similar fashion, though Percival no longer makes the mistake of forgetting. He makes a note across the first week of December in every school planner he comes to use, and with Hadrian promising to only show up at a certain hour even if the day is uncertain, Percival simply takes to slipping out past curfew.

His love-hate friendship with Seraphina makes things difficult, especially when they both become Prefects and are partnered up for patrol duty.

But he makes it work.

His necklace does not escape her notice, he knows. To her credit, she says nothing about it until they are well into their fifth year, and with puberty and hormones abound, their rivalry kicks up to a new level and she makes a grab for it during a particularly nasty row.

Percival does his best not to show how much it bothers him to see it in somebody else's possession, realises that even if he still remains sceptical about the importance of this favour his grandfather had brokered, Hadrian has been a constant these last few years – and how bloody pathetic is it that the consistency of a single visit a year carries that much importance in his life.

Percival does his best to school his features into nonchalance, but Seraphina has always been alarmingly perceptive, and there is _no way_ something would be unimportant if he’s never once taken it off these past five years.

“Is your head really that inflated, Percival? Do you really _worship_ immortality that much? Have you been doing stupid rituals that could basically get your ass expelled – is that why you keep breaking curfew that one week every December?”

“Some would say this level of knowledge of my every coming and going is downright obsessive, Seraphina. Stalker-like, even,” he manages flippantly. “I’m not quite sure I’m flattered.”

When she stubbornly stands her ground, glaring at him for only Merlin knows what reason, Percival sighs and reaches out a hand, gesturing at the necklace.

“It was a gift, Sera. I’d like it back. You can throw hexes and jinxes and whatever the hell else at me, but don’t go grabbing what’s mine.”

“I’m sure that’s not what you said to Donnelly the other day in – "

“Sera!” Percival finally snaps. “I honestly have no idea what’s come over you, but I told you that in _confidence_ , why the hell you’re choosing to hurl that against me now is just – ”

To his growing mortification, Percival can feel the hot flush of humiliation creep up his neck. He grimaces against the sensation, staring after the necklace one last time before turning on his heel and walking away.

 

-x-

 

It is three days of exasperated, pointed glances from their instructors, poorly hushed whispers from the lower years and amused gossiping from the upper years over the Power Duo’s most recent bickering – and _oh, isn’t this cold shoulder lasting longer than usual?_ _Oi, Graves, Picquery, you two should just end the tension, yeah? I know the broom shack’s gonna be unoccupied in a few hours…_

The hex Percival surreptitiously sends the asshole’s way only narrowly misses detection. Just as well, really, because Percival was not in the mood for detention.

“Close miss, that. A second earlier and the Deputy Headmistress would’ve at least felt the air shift from the spell.”

Percival refuses to let his body betray his surprise. He hadn’t noticed her following him at all.

He forces himself to turn around and face her. Hesitation is a new look on Seraphina. For all that it feels grimly satisfying, it also sits oddly in his chest.

Hardly enough for him to make the first move, though. A Graves knows the delicate art of properly holding a grudge, thank you.

Seraphina approaches him slowly like he’s a cornered animal, then with more certainty, apparently encouraged by him doing his best impression of a statue. She holds out the necklace with an odd reverence wholly absent the last time they’d interacted. He accepts it, immediately putting it back on, a weight easing off his shoulders at the familiar touch of cool metal against his skin.

“Can we talk? Please?”

They end up in the little alcove near the top of the southern tower, an obvious gap maintained between them.

“I’m sorry,” Seraphina finally says. “I’m so, so sorry, Percival.”

He keeps his silence, refusing to meet her eyes, focusing instead on the vicinity of her cheekbones.  

“In hindsight, I know…” she clears her throat. “I know I crossed the line. Went far, far past the line, really. It was remarkably petty, but I was jealous – ”

“Jealous?” Percival repeats, entirely bewildered and desperately hoping he hasn’t been misreading the way they’ve always carried on.

“Oh, not in that way. But, yes. Jealous.” Seraphina’s solemn expression cracks, and shame transforms her face. She takes a deep breath, piecing back her determination and fearlessness. There’s the Sera he knows. Sweet Morgana has this been an unsettling new experience for both of them.

With a defiance and fire in her eyes that should really sit oddly with the sincerity of her words, Seraphina forces him to meet her gaze. “I was jealous because rivalry aside, you’re my greatest friend, Percival, and I thought – I’d hoped I wasn’t alone in thinking so. And the way you were clearly keeping secrets from me was just grating.”

“That doesn’t justify what you did, let alone what you said,” Percival says softly, unwilling to back down on this.

“I know,” she says, pursing her lips.

“It’s unrealistic to think there can never be any secrets between people, Sera. Even between best friends,” he concedes. “You have to know that there are things a person isn’t comfortable talking about.”

“Is… Is that one of them?” Seraphina asks, still a little meek, gesturing at the necklace tucked away just below his uniform’s neckline. Percival makes a mental note to extend the cord so it sits more safely against his sternum and well out of sight.

He pauses against the reflexive _yes_ , because the truth is, Hadrian has always seemed more or less indifferent to people knowing about him – with the exception of poor Damien in their first year. Percival has a feeling Hadrian had only acted the way he had for the sake of convenience, and, maybe, to spare Percival the fuss.

“I don’t think so, to be fair. I’m… actually fairly certain he wouldn’t mind. If only because it sounds absolutely mad and he doesn’t expect anybody to believe me enough for it to come close to being a problem,” Percival reasons. Huh. “You could have just asked, Sera.”

“Well,” she pounces. “May I ask _now?_ You said ‘him’. Who’s ‘him’?”

Percival cannot believe he’s about to do this.

“Remember that _you_ asked for this explanation, and if you laugh, I cannot guarantee that I will not hex you six ways into Sunday.”

Seraphina’s eyes take on a familiar unholy gleam, and Percival’s regret stretches back five years to his first train ride to Ilvermorny.

Percival explains, starting from the very beginning.

…

Seraphina does not laugh, she does not even smirk. No, a faint furrow takes up residence between her brows, and she _concentrates_ on every word Percival says.

 

-x-

 

Years from now, buried in a box somewhere in the attic of his townhouse, Percival’s diaries from his school years will have a particular volume spelled to only open for him, and only if he pays a small blood toll. If it weren’t for his highly inconvenient touch of sentimentality, he would have burned the infernal thing so there is no physical record of what turned out to be the most unwantedly eventful and embarrassing year of his life. If ever proof was needed that no human is exempt from being a _teenager,_ that diary of the reserved, perfect Percival Graves would have more than sufficed.

And damn it all does it begin with Seraphina blithely declaring, “We should test it.”

It is the first thing out of her mouth once Percival had finished explaining Hadrian.

He blames his parched throat for the eloquent wheeze of a reply.

Percival Graves is a leader, make no mistake. But time has shown, and will only ever continue to show, that in the frustrating glory of Seraphina Picquery blazing with purpose, everybody becomes a follower.

On the 18th of February 1899, Percival encounters for the first and only time (Merlin willing) the terrifying wrath of Hadrian.

Breaking curfew, Seraphina meets him atop the southern tower, at so late an hour it is all but guaranteed that nobody will find them unless they are deeply unfortunate. Percival doesn’t let himself think any further on the wisdom of this decision. Holding Seraphina’s eager gaze, he grips the pendant tightly and thinks of him.

In between two heartbeats, they are no longer alone.

Seraphina doesn’t stumble back, but her eyes go comically wide. Percival simply blinks at the man’s appearance, taking in Hadrian’s defensive stance, the way familiar bright green eyes are dilated. His robes are covered in dark splotches that takes Percival a moment to realise in the poor lighting is blood.

“What’s wrong?” Hadrian barks at Percival. “Are you alright?”

“Why are you covered in blood?” Seraphina just _has_ to take that moment to demand suspiciously.

“Percival,” Hadrian hisses, stalks towards him, completely ignoring Seraphina. “Tell me you did not summon me on a lark.”

“I – I just wanted to know if,” Percival stammers out.

“ **Did you summon me on a lark, Percival?** ”

The oppressive air becomes downright suffocating when he chokes out a _yes_. It isn’t just his guilt that makes the air seem stifling – a sharp glance at Seraphina from the corner of his eye shows her gasping for air too. The expression on Hadrian’s face trips from unnervingly impassive to thunderous, green eyes burning brighter than Percival has ever seen them.

The pressure against his ribs increases when Hadrian finally closes the gap between them to crowd him against the wall. The hysterical part of Percival’s brain that has ever provided the most useless observations when he knows he’s supremely fucked notes that at some point over the year, he has surpassed Hadrian in height. Indeed, Percival finds his chin pressed sharply down in order to look at the man this close.

“I thought you had outgrown this nonsense, Percival Graves. It has _never_ been my sodding job to convince you. You don’t believe me, that’s _your_ problem. But when you drag me from the middle of a fucking _battlefield_ – I have my duties, Percival! Departing souls that deserve no less than my guidance! You may not think much of it, and I didn’t care that you don’t, but congratulations, you _child,_ you have officially made me care,” Hadrian hisses.

“I _promise_ , if you pull this cry wolf bullshit again, I will show you that there are worse things than dying.”

Just like that, Hadrian abruptly dematerialises and the air rushes back.

Seraphina stumbles over to him, pale and wheezing.

“Mercy. Fucking. Lewis.”

Percival doesn’t even have the capacity to relish the first time Sera says any variation of ‘fuck’.

As if determined to prove that the night could still get worse, there had been enough of a magical disturbance to draw somebody’s attention – a somebody who does, in fact, give both of them a week’s worth of detention and a look of profound disappointment.

 

\---

 

_ 1899 _

The worst part of life following The Incident is the wait.

Seraphina had volunteered to grovel with him, her usual pride abandoned at the unavoidable acknowledgement that they had been in the presence of something _other_ that night.

“That’s all well and good, but there’s no way to actually get in touch with him. And there is not a snowball’s chance in hell that I’m going to use the necklace again for this. Lest we forget – he didn’t threaten _you_ with something worse than death.”

So, they wait, well, _he_ waits with a debilitating wariness all through the first term of his sixth year.

When the first week of December arrives, knowing now what she knows, Seraphina is all but shoving him towards the southern tower an hour before their shift ends. She sends him along with a fortifying pat on the back, and a weak “good luck”. Lucky minx.

Monday to Saturday, Percival waits atop the tower at the usual spot, lingering in the frigid air until the sun almost rises. He takes it as penitence. He’s had more than ample time to mull over Hadrian’s words, and the first thing he’d done the day after The Incident had been to scour for news of a war anywhere in the world. He found his answer in a No-Maj newspaper. If his foolish summoning had deprived who knows how many dying soldiers’ souls from Death’s guidance, then, really, freezing his ass off for a few hours hardly even qualifies as a punishment.

He almost resigns himself to the fact that Hadrian has (understandably) decided not to show up when he’s suddenly _there_.

The man is in heavy robes, thick scarf wrapped snugly around his neck, just covering the lower half of his face. But the stony disapproval is obvious all the same.

“I cannot begin to describe how sorry I am, and I swear if there had been a way to apologise sooner I would have done so,” Percival gets out quickly, just in case Hadrian vanishes before he can finish.

“You’re young,” Hadrian says, apropos seemingly of nothing.

“…yes,” Percival agrees, daring to raise a brow.

Hadrian snorts, moving closer to him, the lines of his body finally softening with each step.

“It has been centuries, maybe longer, I’ve lost track – suffice it to say, it’s been a very long time since I’ve had to account for somebody’s age. You are young, and you were thoughtless, but that is a privilege of youth.” The man takes Percival’s chin in one hand, tilts it down gently. “But that privilege is waived now that you ought to know better. Are we clear?”

“Yes, sir,” Percival breathes.

Hadrian’s lips twist into a small smile. His thumb absently caresses Percival’s skin as he shakes his head ruefully.

“How has sixth year been, then?”

Percival rubs the back of his head sheepishly. “Tense.”

“Because you’ve been waiting to apologise? Because you’ve felt guilty and it’s been stewing since February? Because you worried I’d punish you?”

“Yes,” Percival quirks his lips. “Yes, to all of those.”

“I suppose it was effective, even if it wasn’t wholly my intention.”

“Wasn’t your intention? You threatened me with something worse than dying!”

“ _If_ you raised a false alarm again,” Hadrian placidly points out. “And I wouldn’t have actually harmed you. I did give you my word, Percival.”

“How could I have kno – Hadrian, that was the first time it finally sunk into my thick skull that the scales were seriously tipping towards the unfathomable possibility that you truly are Death.”

Hadrian just hums, non-committal.

“I wasn’t at my best. And you had thoroughly pissed me off,” he says. “Can’t say I’m genuinely sorry, though. And _Merlin’s_ _balls_ if that’s what it takes to persuade you of the truth, Percy.”

Percival chokes on air.

“ _Percy_? Really?”

Hadrian gives him the stink eye. “You don’t want me to get more creative. Consider _this_ your punishment.”

Percival takes it stoically, discretion being the better part of valour and all that.

As frightening as The Incident had been, it seems as if there’s a silver lining because the air feels clearer between them.

To Percival’s (pleasant) surprise, Hadrian stays far longer than he’s ever had, and they while away the hours until the sun first begins to peek through the gloomy winter clouds.

Before Hadrian materialises them right into Percival’s dormitory, he makes a request.

“Can there be some way to get in touch with you? Not that I’m expecting to anger you again and have need to apologise without waiting several months to do so – ”

Hadrian considers him, face impassive again.

Percival never does receive a response.

But at breakfast on Monday morning, an unknown snowy owl lands haughtily in front of him, scrap of paper tied to the foot it sticks at him impatiently. Percival retrieves the note cautiously, not keen on having his fingers shredded. Once done, the owl doesn’t pick off his plate, though its eyes keep darting to the strips of bacon.

Surely not. Does it expect to be hand-fed?

Percival lifts the largest strip to the owl’s beak, but is unprepared for the huffy jerk of its head at the scrap of paper still clasped in his other hand.

Taking the unnatural hint, Percival unfolds the note and a small grin spreads across his face.

 _He’ll know where to find me. He’s unnamed and yours to use normally._ _Don’t you dare neglect him even if you already have a messenger._

His attention is wrenched away by a sharp pain. Percival whips his head around to stare at the small pinprick of blood blooming on his finger. Where the bacon strip had once been, there’s nothing, and the damn owl merely glares at him. Then at the plate.

Trust the second gift from Hadrian to be the surliest owl to ever exist.

With a mocking bow of his head, Percival offers the remaining strips of bacon one by one.

Not like they’re good for his waistline, anyway.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> Percival and Seraphina are assumed to be the same age. Percival's assumed birthday is the 22nd of November 1883 (the date has NOTHING to do with Mads Mikkelsen. -cough- I'm lying).
> 
> And yes, the name 'Chester' was taken from Kingsman's Chester King. (Not... that I expect anybody to have noticed something so trivial)
> 
> The story's conceptualisation of Death borrows very heavily with a gigantic nod to Neil Gaiman's Death of The Endless. (The Sandman series was my highschool everything)


	2. Act 1.2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hadrian, King of Sudden Entrances and Abrupt Exits. 
> 
> Also - the mattress. Percival is the mattress. 
> 
> (Thank you so, so much for the flood of kudos and subscriptions and bookmarks after just a single chapter of a rather obscure pairing. I tried to meet the internal goal of one chapter per week at the minimum, but I'm an hour late - I'M SURE IT'S STILL SUNDAY SOMEWHERE IN THE WORLD, THOUGH!)
> 
> Fuller author notes at the end.

_ 1900 – Thanksgiving Break _

 “Erebus, you giant feather duster, get _down_ here! Stop banging the package against the wall,” Percival does not shout at the snowy owl. He merely raises his voice. A little.

Feathery bloody menace.

“I am _sorry_ there weren’t those bacon bits you like waiting for you, and frankly, you can take your complaints about the long flight to and fro straight to Hadrian instead because _I was not the one who summoned you to his lair_!”

“Yes, well done, Perce,” Seraphina sniffs, lips looking suspiciously wobbly. “Do keep screaming at your _owl_. It’s doing wonders.”

Erebus screeches at them both. Seraphina just keeps flipping the pages of her magazine, unflappably indolent where she’s draped herself across his overstuffed couch.

“Kindly shut up, Sera,” Percival snaps. And _oh_ , his hands have made their way to his hips now, Seraphina notes over the top of her magazine.

“Erebus, Morgana’s saggy ti – ”

“Oi,” Seraphina interrupts. “I’m sure they weren’t saggy, no need to be cruel.”

Percival answers with an infuriated roar that Seraphina is fairly certain would have been a scream if she hadn’t invited herself into his bedroom for the past few hours. Poor bastard. The snowy owl’s been throwing its tantrum for a solid forty minutes.

“Erebus,” Percival croons, clearly changing tactics. Seraphina puts down the magazine, bites her lip hard to stifle the laughter at his attempt to re-arrange his expression into something appeasing, but just looks constipated. “Erebus, I know you’re tired, _I’m_ incredibly tired. Just give me the package, and I’ll have a _mountain_ of treats at your feet. And I promise the absence of bacon bits post-flight will never happen again. Merlin knows we’ve all learnt our lesson.”

It takes a little more grovelling from Percival before the owl finally relinquishes the package, though not without making sure his owner bleeds for it.

Seraphina takes pity on him, healing the scratches as Percival unshrinks the box and opens it with more force than is strictly necessary. Without shame, Seraphina looks over his shoulder to see the contents. She lets out a low whistle at the wand holster.

“Is that dragonhide?”

“The note says it’s Hungarian Horntail,” Percival replies absently, fingers running reverently over the matte finish of the black scales.

“Does it say anything else?”

“Just wished me happy birthday – ”

“That’s it?”

“Mercy Lewis, Sera, this isn’t one of your trashy romance novels,” Percival snarks. “Yes, I know about your guilty pleasure.”

“Literature is literature, Percival.” She jabs him viciously in the ribs.

“He just said he hopes it serves me well, that’s all. Read the damn note yourself,” Percival grumbles, shoving the little rectangular cardstock at her.

Seraphina scans the words, the plain writing. It’s almost clinical.

“Is he still going to meet you in December, or do you think he’ll hold off until graduation?”

Percival turns to look at her, pensive.

“Hadn’t thought of it like that, actually. Guess I’ll ask.”

As soon as the words leave his mouth, Percival winces. It takes her a moment, but Seraphina grimaces in sympathy, and they both turn to look at where Erebus is perched in the corner of the bedroom by the window.

“Maybe give it a day. Or three.”

 

\---

 

_ 1901 _

The fact that it’s the final term of seventh year dawns on Percival with all the force of a train one morning.

It’s not that he isn’t _prepared_ , per se. His admission to the Auror programme has come along very nicely, and while it’s a conditional offer, it’s mere formality. So little is required of him that Percival would have to work hard to fall below what’s been asked.

No, it’s the overwhelming realisation that he’s going to have to leave Ilvermorny which has been far more of a home than the Graves Estate ever has been. It’s the realisation that he’s going to have to be an adult, that his actions are going to come with far heavier consequences if he’s careless.

Merlin bless the house elves, but Mercy fucking Lewis he’s going to have to figure out how to do his own laundry, how to cook something beyond what barely qualifies as sustenance.  

Seraphina pinches him the following day before Potions begins.

“You’re going to have to do something about _that_ ,” she says, propping her chin on her palm. She gestures vaguely at his face. “No way the Director of Magical Security is going to put the fear of MACUSA in any minion’s soul if he goes about like a sap.”

 _That_ snaps Percival out of his faint daze. “And thank _you_ for that. Good to know I won’t have to miss your acid tongue even after we leave. How are you this unaffected?”

“I _am_ affected, you great lump. But Mama Picquery just raised her baby girl to have a far better poker face than _you_.”

“I see Madame President has practiced her dismissive shrug of elegance,” Percival smirks.

“Put a cap on the pre-mature sentimentality, Perce. Honestly. It’s not like the whole world’s going to change, especially if we’re going to be _shacking_ _up_ together.”

Percival blinks at her. “It’ll take more than that to make me blush, Sera. But this is news. Grandmama and Mama Picquery have no issues with our idea, then?”

“They _like_ you, Percival. They also think between the two of us, we just might be able to keep an apartment standing. Besides, it’s a practical choice. We’ll be in the same programme together for several years, there’s no chance of any _funny business_ between us, and it’ll save costs. It didn’t take much convincing, to be honest.”

“You do always enjoy messing with the delicate sensibilities of others. Single young lady living with a young man? The neighbours will have a wonderful time.”

“As will we,” Seraphina says primly, turning her attention back to the front of the classroom.

 

-x-

 

There’s probably no discernible change in the room, not even a displacement of air, but Percival just _knows_ he’s arrived.

“Hello, Percy.”

He looks over his shoulder to greet the man, unable to stifle the small grin that often seems to find its way across his lips these days. The sheer joy of finally leaving the Graves Estate has been bubbling inside him ever since he began packing up his bedroom.

Hadrian returns the grin, though a little more slowly.

“Is it your graduating Ilvermorny, or your,” Hadrian pauses, taking in the mild chaos of the room. “moving out?”

“Mostly the latter,” Percival says, grin widening.

He watches Hadrian seat himself on the bed. The oddly innocent look of surprise when he _sinks_ into the mattress only to be bounced back, causes an unexpected lurch in Percival’s chest. The man cautiously stabilises himself with his hands, gingerly patting the covers like it’s an unruly animal.

Percival unashamedly takes in the simple, but smart-looking emerald waistcoat and white shirt Hadrian is dressed in, the man having abandoned both jacket and outer robes. It is a very No-Maj choice of clothing, but Percival has long had a suspicion that as Death, Hadrian has little allegiance to one world over the other. The American wizarding community is slowly coming around to No-Maj fashion, but it’s still very much an upper-class luxury that garners whispers and poorly veiled admiration. There’s just far more mobility with the No-Maj designs.

And, well, Percival’s always been a bit of a maverick at heart. A trip to the tailor was going to be necessary before his first day as a Trainee Auror, in any case.

“Congratulations on your graduation, by the way.”

Hadrian’s smile is barely there, but it is no less sincere and _soft_.

“Thank you,” Percival replies, shutting the suitcase he had been fussing over, before walking over. He unceremoniously plops himself down by Hadrian’s feet, and it gets him a raised brow and a pointed look at the _miles_ of unoccupied bed available to him.

Percival simply shrugs at the man.

The smile twists into something fond, which is then accompanied by a longsuffering sigh that Percival is _very_ familiar with.

“Will you live alone? Can’t imagine your grandfather is pleased about you refusing to live with the family.”

“Far from pleased,” Percival scoffs. “But Father has been acting as a buffer. I’m not sure what’s changed, but… he’s seemed to have found his backbone in recent months.” He runs a hand through his hair. It would be a lie to say he _loves_ his father enough for his frank observation to truly bother him, yet his father is his _father_ and his distant (non-existent) parenting was always better than his grandfather’s invasive efforts. 

Percival doesn’t meet his eyes when Hadrian leans down to brush Percival’s hair back in place.

“I’ll be sharing an apartment with Seraphina.”

Hadrian smirks. “You hellions are going to enjoy provoking your neighbours, aren’t you?” It sounds far more like a statement than a question.

Percival shrugs again.

“Alright,” Hadrian says. He rests his arms on his knees, remains leaning forward. “To business, then? It’s time we talk about my favour to you. I’d like to hear your thoughts on the matter first.”

Percival stops his fingers from fiddling with the cuffs of his sleeves. He takes a moment before answering.

“I’ve given the notion of an arranged marriage some thought,” he begins. “It has its merits…  If I end up essentially married to the job, which I do think will happen, having an arranged marriage will silence everyone, spare me from incessant proposals and concerns over being single – heir of the Graves legacy, such a waste and all that.”

“And your protection?”

“You’ve gifted me the necklace, which we know _works_ ,” Percival says sheepishly. Hadrian arches a brow at him, smirk in place. “I’m not sure what else I might ask of you on the matter – a blood oath? A soul bond?”

Hadrian’s face shutters itself. Percival quietly makes note of it.

“The arranged marriage – as I said, I’m mostly indifferent to it. But what use is there in only being able to say you’re married if there’s no other visible proof? You already know I will not be around. In your circles, especially as heir to such a prominent family, you will inevitably be in the spotlight. The marriage must be visible or it won’t serve whatever purpose you hope it will.

“To be married by wizarding law would also require something akin to a soul bond, Percival. Not quite as serious, but close. I do not wish you bound to the exclusion of all other possibilities – you are _young_ , Percy. You might find a partner whom you’d like to pledge yourself to, even if not in marriage. Why prematurely remove the option altogether? It’s for the same reason that I will not offer a soul bond as a means of protection. A blood oath, however, I shall willingly offer. A blood oath of loyalty, that I act only in good faith towards you, that I do my best to protect you in a given situation.”

Percival frowns in thought, bristling a little at being told he is ‘young’.

“I’ve _had_ relationships before, you know. They’ve just never turned out to be worth the effort to maintain. I don’t see it as something I _need_.”

Hadrian smiles at him again, so widely it even touches his eyes, and Percival’s just knows the man is a moment away from either cooing or telling him he is _young_. _Again_.

“Don’t you dare. I’m speaking seriously – ”

To his credit, Hadrian does neither of the things Percival dreads, merely twists the stupid grin into something wry. He sighs.

“I know you are,” he says. “But what you’ve experienced isn’t necessarily indicative of what relationships are like when both parties are older.”

“I find it difficult to imagine you’re speaking from experience,” Percival mutters. “And don’t think I didn’t notice your roundabout way of repeating that you think I’m _young_.”

“Rude, Percy. So rude,” Hadrian says with mock offence. “I am, indeed, speaking from experience. Granted, experience several centuries old. Or is it a century early?” The man flaps his hand dismissively. “Not that it really matters.”

Percival’s eye _twitches_ with the effort it takes not to assault the man with questions. Damn him.

“What do you think, then? Proceed with the blood oath, but leave off one of the most terminally unromantic marriage proposals the world has ever witnessed for when you’ve had a few years as an Auror under your belt? If it’s something you still think useful then, that is.”

“Alright.”

“Alright,” Hadrian echoes, rising to his feet. “Up you get. Come on.”

“Now?” Percival asks in surprise, though he obeys all the same.

“Certainly. No sense in postponing this.” Hadrian answers calmly.

Standing face to face, Hadrian raises his right hand and a simple, gleaming knife materialises. Without warning, he slices his left palm and blood gushes from the deep wound, dripping onto the floor.

“Your left hand, please. You needn’t bleed, don’t worry. It is an oath to _you_ , a one-way street.”

Percival offers his left hand obediently, blinking at the amount of blood that continues to flow, dazedly realising that it is a far deeper red than he knows blood to be – almost black.

Hadrian’s hand, slick with blood, grips Percival’s firmly, and Percival _feels_ the blood sinking into his own skin, as if his body was eagerly absorbing it, greedy for more.

Then, Hadrian speaks.

“ **By the life that flows in Death, so shall it be sworn that Death watches Percival Graves. By the life that flows in Death, so shall it be sworn that Percival Graves bears Death’s loyalty, to be satisfied only in good faith, a life to be protected to the best of Death’s knowledge at the time.”**

It is over as quickly as it began. There is little evidence that anything has changed. Hadrian’s blood vanishes, not a trace left on the carpet or on Percival’s hand. The deep cut on Hadrian’s palm knits itself up before Percival’s very eyes, and he expects that as his association with Hadrian continues over the years, there will be very little that shall ever surprise him.

“That’s that,” Hadrian eventually says.

Percival just nods.

“All the best with the Auror program, Percy. I’ll see you in a year.”

 

\---

 

_ 1906 - 1913 _

Grudgingly, though Hadrian had been right to call him ‘young’ those years ago, _Percival_ was right in thinking he would likely end up married to his job. Not that he’s certain it’s something to feel smug over being right about.

He has a goal, much like Seraphina does, and the moment he set foot in the meeting room that day, five years ago, for the first introductory briefing of the Auror program, Percival had fallen into the all-consuming tunnel that he found he could not stray from. The longer he remained, the closer he got to that blasted light at the end, and the harder it became to find a reason not to trudge on. Work-life balance became a myth, and Percival threw himself into his career. In this, he and Seraphina were so evenly matched their peers naturally assumed they were together.

(They had attempted to correct this misassumption in the early days, but gave it up for a lost cause as the years went on.)

Percival grows into the persona he carefully shapes for himself. He knows to be as boisterous as the situation necessitates in the first few years, quietly building the reputation as the somewhat reserved but very amiable Trainee Auror Graves amongst his peers. Percival hones his charms so well, few if any realise that while they’ve opened up to Graves, they still know next to nothing about him.

To his superiors, he is overly dedicated, hardworking, and possesses a frightening competence second only to Seraphina Picquery.

He becomes their ace card.

Through it all, Percival makes certain that Hadrian’s necklace is never seen, tucked safe behind the crisp white shirts and waistcoats he becomes known for. He considers himself fortunate that only once has he ever found his hand twitching towards the pendant. It nearly happens in his eighth year as an Auror.

It’s 1908 and a gang war breaks out between No-Majs. Naturally, some enterprising wizard decides to flirt with Rappaport’s law, offering some ‘mysterious’ powers to the Eastman crew. For all that MACUSA insists on the strict divide between the two worlds, it’s only good governance to keep an eye on the No-Majs after all. And when word inevitably reaches MACUSA of the increasing desperation of the Eastman crew in their feud against the Five Points Gang, enough desperation to buy into the suspicious promises of one of their members’ contacts, the case lands on Percival’s tiny desk.

Grab the wizard and get out before the big confrontation between the two gangs. No muss, no fuss. No breach of Rappaport’s law.

Except, there are guns involved, and given the climate, the gangs are more than a little trigger-happy.

The tip-off proves reliable and Percival manages to locate the target within a ramshackle apartment. But it’s an apartment within Eastman territory and there is activity at all hours of the day.

Percival isn’t worried, it isn’t his first time dealing with such missions on hostile territory. But all the experience in the world isn’t enough to account for the series of unexpected mistakes – all so small and slight… yet, taken together, resulted in shots fired and Percival’s blood on the ground.  

It begins with his usual partner going on maternity leave, only to be substituted by the most promising, but thoroughly overzealous, Auror freshly graduated from the Trainee program. Percival hadn’t kicked up too much of a fuss at his superiors’ decision – for all intents and purposes, it was a tricky mission, but far from delicate enough for him to request a more seasoned partner.

They disillusion themselves the moment they arrive as close as they dare apparate. His partner, Simmons, grows twitchy, whether from nerves or excitement, Percival hardly cares – all that matters is calming the bastard down before the ripples in his disillusionment become too obvious. This is home territory for the gang, it means they know the landscape inside out. It would be foolish to think the rising tensions made them less observant rather than _more_ , wary as they would be of any infiltrators from the Five Points Gang.

They cut it awfully close just as they reach the apartment building, Simmons jerking violently when a rowdy cluster of men had suddenly pulled out their firearms in a fit of semi-intoxicated posturing. Percival all but shoves Simmons through the thankfully vacant entrance of the building. Mercy fucking Lewis.

It is as Percival unlocks the apartment door quietly, his mind _just_ that bit flustered and distracted, that the world goes to hell in a handbasket. What they should have accounted for was their target’s familiarity and reliance on firearms. What they failed to account for was the presence of another person – another _wizard_ – in the apartment.

Their target recognises the telling shimmer of the disillusionment charm and doesn’t even pause before grabbing his pistol. The first bullet leaves a burning trail through Percival’s shoulder, the second lodges itself somewhere around his right collarbone – far too close for comfort. The third, he barely manages to deflect with the strongest shield charm he can manage while struggling with the pain.  

Simmons finally makes himself useful by darting around Percival, disarming the unknown wizard with a well-aimed _Expelliarmus,_ followed by _Incarcerous_. It is a small mercy that Percival’s cloak and body had concealed Simmons long enough for him to retain the element of surprise, just as their disillusionment charms were dropped.

Percival starts a countdown in his head; the sound of gunfire might as well have alerted the entire block. The pain threatens to overwhelm him, and it’s all he can do to keep the fucking shield up. Simmons catches his attention, eyes blown wide with adrenaline. Or perhaps it’s just the sorry state Percival knows he must be in.

But it’s two against one, now. When their target abandons the pistol and fumbles for his wand, Percival releases his shield and pours his magic into the harshest Stunning Spell in his repertoire, feeling more than a little vindictive. There is just enough time to bind their target and side-along apparate with their captives, the heavy pounding of footsteps up the staircase echoing from beyond the door.

Percival, much to his chagrin, doesn’t remember too much of what happened once they land in the lobby of MACUSA. He comes to, not even realising he had blacked out in the first place, in a woefully familiar white room of St. Jouge’s.

“You could have summoned me,” says an equally familiar, quiet voice.

Percival blinks at the blurry figure of Hadrian sitting in the chair by his bed. It seems like such an odd image to his potion-addled brain, he simply babbles without filter.

“Death’s by my bedside – I thought you’d have a hood and scythe.”

Percival paws absently at his eyes until the world finally comes into focus.

Hadrian’s staring at him like he’s unhinged.

Percival stares back.

Hadrian is the first to look away, sighing as he always does.

“Seraphina wrote to me. Do you remember what happened?”

Percival takes a moment, a little slow to register the cup of water being offered to him. After a few sips, he tries to think.

“Gunshot wounds. Did I bleed too much?”

“Did you bleed too much,” Hadrian mutters darkly under his breath. “Yes, Percival, you bled too much. You bled _so_ much that you fainted. I followed up on what the Healers did for you, so the internal damage is all but gone. They’ll leave scars – but I can easily remove them once you’re discharged. It’s your choice.”

Percival curiously pulls at the standard night shirt, peeking at his shoulder and collarbone. Sure enough, it registers that he’s been able to and is able to move without any pain, though the scars are fresh and pink on the surface.

“Leave them,” Percival eventually says. “Useful reminders against making the same damn mistakes. Thank you, though. For the offer and the healing.”

Hadrian answers with a small, dismissive wave of his hand.

“Why didn’t you summon me?” the man asks. It is a simple question asked without much inflection. Mere curiosity. It is the only reason Percival’s hackles don’t rise.

“It crossed my mind very briefly,” Percival allows. “The second bullet did hurt like a bitch. But things were happening too quickly, and they had to happen quickly. Seemed pointless in the end.”

Hadrian nods, accepting the explanation at face value.

“Do you know where Seraphina is?”

Percival watches a smirk twitch its way across Hadrian’s lips, though the rest of his face remains impassive.

“Fine set of lungs she has.”

“…no,” Percival murmurs. “No, she couldn’t have. She didn’t yell at you. Surely she didn’t yell at you.”

The corners of Hadrian’s eyes crinkle a little.

“Conflicting emotions, Hadrian. I don’t know which to process,” Percival groans, flopping onto his pillows dramatically. “I wish I could’ve seen it happen! But I’m also horrified that she yelled in the first place. That’s not the reason why she isn’t here, is it? That you’ve vanished her.”

“And deprive MACUSA of said fine set of lungs? Perish the thought,” Hadrian drawls. “She yelled a little, trembled a lot, and then left me here with you with a _polite_ order that I ‘fix you’. And so I did.”

Percival grins helplessly at the man.

Hadrian drops the impassive mask altogether and smiles until it reaches his eyes.

“ _Madame President_ ,” he whispers around a laugh.

“Madame President.”

Hadrian takes Percival’s right hand in his and pats it.

“Merlin help you all when she begins her reign.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If Hadrian seems waffly with his reasoning, and oddly precise with the oath's phrasing, that's because he IS being waffly in the way only a waffle master can. -pointedly sips tea- 
> 
> (No offence intended to any waffle masters, please keep feeding me waffles)
> 
> I swear, writing stories set years ago is both tedious and mildly amusing when it forces me to double check whether a particular phrase was even in use at the time. Thank you, Standard Oil Ad, for using the phrase 'no muss no fuss' in 1901. I also really, really hate writing action/fight sequences, so please forgive me. I'm going to have to keep trying harder because I highly doubt I'll escape having to write more as we go on.


	3. Act 1.3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Hunched over desk, muttering to self): Don't turn this into a history essay, don't turn this into a history essay.
> 
> PSA: This author made the most wonderful mistake of looking up YT videos of Percival Graves strutting about and had her mind completely blown and made thirsty af. JFC. She may never recover.

_ 1913 - 1914 _

Percival doesn’t often venture into No-Maj New York if there isn’t a work-related reason to do so. But there he is, stuffing his hands into his coat pockets, nose burrowed into the warmth of his scarf in the middle of winter. He’s waiting for an informant when he idly purchases a newspaper for want of something to do.

He absently flips the pages until a little segment catches his eye. Percival scans the column quickly, half interested – something about a Balkan War. Admittedly, it only stood out because of the word ‘war’. He cannot see it and not immediately think of Hadrian. Not the most complimentary of associations, but such is the case.

Disquiet in No-Maj Europe isn’t necessarily news to Percival, but he has always allowed it to slide to the back of his mind. America might as well be on a different planet for No-Maj European armies, in any case. MACUSA was hardly on high alert given the indifference of America’s own No-Maj government on the matter.

On second reading, Percival takes the time to actually process the words. It leaves him bothered, though only a little. But his contact finally shows up, and he puts the matter from his mind once again.

Six months later, he comes across a similar column, yet again while on assignment. The press calls it the _Second_ Balkan War, and it sits strangely with Percival that the tone is calm, the reporting clinical and objective. Just another story. He reasons with himself that such affairs are indeed several thousand miles away, so, yes, he supposes he does understand the indifference of wizarding and No-Maj America.

When Hadrian makes the visit in December, he seems distracted. That in itself isn’t necessarily strange – it happens every now and then. He is Death, after all. It isn’t beyond contemplation that his attention be divided. Percival himself is familiar with being so preoccupied with a case that he forgets to eat or sleep, often zoning out of conversations mid-way the moment words veer toward the irrelevant.

But that means there’s something big enough and important enough to distract _Death_.

“I almost thought it was finally your turn to forget,” Percival jests when Hadrian materialises in his living room two weeks later than usual. He takes one look at the slight frown and unseeing eyes, and pours him a measure of his best whiskey.

Hadrian looks up at him then, blinking twice before his features smooth themselves out. He accepts the glass.

“Hello, Percy. Apologies for the late hour.”

“It’s fine,” Percival says, arching a brow when Hadrian makes no sign of having heard him earlier.

They make the usual small talk, sitting close to the fireplace. His companion isn’t talkative at the best of times, but Hadrian is noticeably quiet that night. He listens, of course, giving the appropriate grunts of acknowledgement and the appropriate hums of appreciation now and then. But he doesn’t contribute much more than that.

“Is everything alright?” Percival finally asks when Hadrian rises to leave, unable to help himself.

Hadrian scrubs a hand across his eyes and smiles. He rests a hand gently on Percival’s neck, passes his thumb over the junction between Percival’s jaw and ear.

“I’m very sorry, Percy. I know I’ve been poor company.”

“Is it the wars in Europe from earlier this year? The Balkan Wars, I think they were.”

Hadrian tenses almost imperceptibly, but Percival was waiting for it – for any reaction.

 “Take care of yourself, Percy. I expect all of us will be incredibly busy in the coming years.”

Percival finds that parting comment peculiar and cryptic, even for Hadrian.

How he wishes his gut feeling was wrong.

 

-x-

 

_ “Austro-Hungarian Government Has Declared War on Serbia, All Europe Prepares for War”_

 

_ “Austria has Chosen War” _

 

_ “England Will Declare War on Germany This Evening” _

 

On the 4th of August, 1914, Percival delves into No-Maj New York and elbows his way to buying a copy of the New York Times. And there, plastered on the front page: _ENGLAND DECLARES WAR ON GERMANY –_

_ “17,000,000 MEN ENGAGED IN GREAT WAR OF EIGHT NATIONS.” _

When Percival walks into the Auror Department the next day, the bullpen is quiet, a silence fraught with tension and uncertainty. Several heads look up from their desks at the sound of the door being pushed open. He meets the various worried frowns with little more than his usual sternness. Normalcy in the face of anxiety always helps, Percival knows. It is no different this time as he watches tense shoulders relax fractionally.

His first stop of the day is the Head Auror’s office. As Deputy Head, his mornings begin with a briefing. As usual, the man is late and Percival leans against the wall by the office door, closing his eyes to the twitchy glances of Jameson’s secretary.

Twenty wasted minutes later, his superior comes blustering in, grunting at the sight of Percival. One of these days, Percival swears he’s going to grunt back.

When Jameson carries on with the laundry list of matters he wants handled by the end of the day, with not a word about the news, Percival struggles to maintain his composure. It takes ninety painful minutes for Jameson to finally grow tired of his own voice and his meandering soliloquy _._ Ninety minutes before Percival’s patience wears out and he asks if Jameson came across the No-Maj newspapers yesterday.

Jameson stares at him with aggravatingly beady eyes, and scoffs.

“There was nothing important in _our_ newspapers these past few days, and if whatever No-Maj nonsense you’re alluding to didn’t make it to our papers, then it’s nothing worth our notice. Now, get out, Graves.”

Percival takes several calming, inconspicuous breaths before gritting out a clipped “Sir.”

He remembers walking out the blasted office, somewhat prowling down corridors, letting his feet just _carry_ him until he finds himself standing in front of Seraphina’s door. Her secretary clears her throat to get his attention.

“She’s got about twenty minutes before her next meeting, Auror Graves.”

“Thank you.”

Percival raps his knuckles on the door and pushes the door open before he even hears a response. Seraphina pauses mid-drink, coffee cup inches from her lips. She arches an elegant brow at his intrusion.

“Manners, Percival. And close the door.”

“Am I going mad, or is MACUSA taking a deliberately ignorant stance on what is essentially becoming a _world war_ just across the ocean? I haven’t had the chance to pick up our newspaper this morning, forgive me, but Jameson so kindly informed me that even our press isn’t treating the matter seriously.”

Seraphina watches him pace up and down, and if he had a tail, she’s certain it would be twitching with every turn of his heel.

“It isn’t you. You’re not going mad. How did your department react?”

“Tense. Unsettled. And you know some of them have No-Maj relatives. They’re a lot more aware of what goes on in the No-Maj world than the average wizard here. But Jameson basically told me to take my cue from what MACUSA is allowing our press to report – and apparently, that means to ignore it all. Is there anything you can tell me?”

Seraphina takes a sip of her drink. With equal calmness, she draws her wand and casts a privacy charm.

“The Vice-President told me that MACUSA’s stance is primarily to contain any unnecessary widespread panic among our people. The No-Maj government, as far as our agents know, is insisting on neutrality. Their President wants no part in this war breaking out all over Europe. Things are going well for us here. Why jeopardise it?”

Percival’s ~~prowling~~ pacing grinds to an abrupt halt. His glare shifts to Seraphina.

“And what is _your_ opinion?” he asks, voice soft. She wonders if he’s decided to adopt Hadrian’s intimidation tactic, or if it’s subconscious.

“I think it’s bullshit. I think this is what’s going to happen – nobody wants their sons, their fathers, their brothers getting involved in a war on that scale. Especially when it seems to have directly affected none of us. Much less us wizards. It’s a No-Maj war, after all. The No-Maj public opinion will probably mimic their President’s for a time. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if some choose to _defect_ , what with their loyalties still rooted strongly enough in Germany and its allies even if they’ve emigrated.

“But I digress. As always, given the ever expanding territorial scope of a war that involves so many nations, something American is going to get caught in the crossfire. Or Britain or some other country that America had good relations with, trade or otherwise, will cave and outright seek American support. Or, Merlin forbid, the tides begin to shift and it becomes clear that our would-be allies are losing,” Seraphina says, her voice dropping low and entrancing like a storyteller weaving the most horribly riveting story.

“ _Then_ , and only then, will America get startled enough to rise from slumber. Because only then will the threat possibly turn its focus onto us.”

“It just goes against my instincts, Sera,” Percival says with a heavy sigh. “To wait until an attack is at our doorstep rather than taking the offensive, curtailing this mess before it gets out of hand for us. At what point will preparations, _necessary_ wide-scale preparations, for such a war even begin? How will we integrate with the No-Maj army? Will Rappaport’s Law finally be amended if not temporarily suspended – ”

Seraphina makes her way around her desk, footsteps soft and graceful. She takes his hand in hers.

“There are other ways, I’m sure of it, for us to help. Unofficially. Quietly. Before America formally joins the war. We’ll think of something. But for now, we must wait. Everything is still unclear, Perce. Let me send our British counterparts discrete enquiries. Alright? We’ll start with that.”

 

-x-

 

True to her word, Seraphina does get in touch with her Chief of Staff counterpart in Britain. She gets her reply from Barnaby Swindon, Chief of Staff to the Deputy Minister for Magic, who tells her by way of an equally discreet note that he has _heard_ that Minister for Magic Archer Evermonde intends for an emergency legislation to pass, forbidding the involvement of the British wizarding world in the Muggle war.

With a little more prodding, a little more digging, Seraphina is ‘not’-told that the Head of the British Department of Magical Law Enforcement disagrees _rather_ strongly with the Minister for Magic, but is bound by the duties of his office. However, _however_ , she might wish to get in touch with his Head Auror. It’s all very hush-hush and Seraphina truly hopes this doesn’t turn out to be a waste of time because Percival’s valiant attempt not to breathe down her neck has been achieving the exact opposite.

Finally, a good month after this all began, Seraphina is able to leave a scrap of paper in Percival’s pocket when she bundles him into the damn thing and all but chucks him out of MACUSA _to go home and rest._ When he, admittedly, staggers through his front door, Percival unfolds the bit of paper. There is a single name on it – _Theseus Scamander_.

Scamander turns out to be an auror, more specifically, the succeeding Deputy Head Auror before he was granted an unpaid sabbatical for family reasons. And by ‘family reasons’, he meant internal conflicts. And by ‘internal conflicts’, anybody who _ought_ to know knew he meant ‘the war’.

 

-x-

 

 

 

> **_ 25th Sept _ **
> 
> _We’re grateful for the offer of support. We’ll need all the help we can get. That bloody piece of legislation has passed, but a few of us have begun something on the side to provide support for now. It’s growing, thankfully, but it’ll be a while more before it’s stable enough for us to actually join the conflict directly. Some of us feel too restless. We ought to meet up at some point, perhaps after you get a feel of potential American volunteers._
> 
> _\- S_
> 
> _P.S. Your owl is a fucking menace. You chose a suitable name for it – wouldn’t be surprised if it chose it itself, actually. Any tips on getting it to stop taking a chunk of my finger every time it drops off a letter? The feathery thing only turns into a cuddly fiend for my younger brother, but that’s hardly surprising. A sodding dragon would probably turn into a kitten for him._

 

 

> **_ 30th Sept _ **
> 
> _Give me until December to set something up, see how word spreads. It’s going to take a lot of quiet manoeuvring. Overwhelming support for neutrality at the moment makes any hint of dissent fatal. On high isn’t as obliging as yours are. The absolute top notwithstanding._
> 
> _-G_
> 
> _P.S. Is your brother an animal whisperer? An Animagus? I’ve had the damn thing for over a decade and it’s still leaving me more scars than my job does. Seriously considering the Animagus theory. Afraid the only useful tip I’ve got is to have bacon bits on hand. Lots of it._

-x-

 

His assessment of the difficulty in forming what is essentially an underground resistance group doesn’t turn out to be an exaggeration. It takes the combined efforts of Seraphina and Percival, channelling their Ilvermorny selves at their most mischievous and imaginative to build up proper communication channels, meeting venues, supply routes, and more – all the while trying to keep their involvement under wraps and away from the prying eyes of their superiors.

The balancing act is _exhausting_. Reading the reports from No-Maj newspapers is exhausting. Stifling the growing restlessness that comes with only being spectators to the ever worsening destruction that unfolds in the various theatres of war is exhausting. The helplessness he feels in this interim, reading Theseus’ own updates to him, is exhausting.

And so, when Erebus drops a note in his lap, looking equally worn out, he can’t find it in himself to feel even remotely guilty when he promptly crushes the paper bearing Hadrian’s hastily scrawled notice that he won’t be able to make it this year. Instead, Percival is a little startled by the surge of anger that almost _chokes_ him, that leaves his hands trembling, and his heart hammering the way it does when he’s yet again overdone it with the caffeine.

But fuck it all, he’s far too tired to bother understanding this fury.

With a growl that peters out to a miserable sob, Percival simply wills the paper to burn in his hand until it’s nothing more than ashes.

To his everlasting surprise, Erebus breaks the silence with a soft _hoot_ , and flutters over to him. Never, in the last fifteen years, has the owl shown him the slightest bit of affection. Yet, here he is, landing positively _gently_ on Percival’s slumped shoulder to nuzzle his stubbled jaw fiercely.

He will never admit to the way his eyes suddenly prickle.  

Cautiously, Percival strokes his fingers over and over slightly ruffled feathers, absently preening them.

“Don’t suppose the bastard told _you_ anything, did he?” Percival murmurs.

Erebus hoots twice, soft and almost apologetic.

 

\---

 

_ 1915 _

In May, the catalysts arrive, two events that come hurtling in, one closely followed by the other. It begins with Germany’s sinking of the RMS _Lusitania_ on its voyage back to Liverpool from New York. An early estimate of the death toll numbers just over a thousand, and although it mostly consisted of Britons, there were at least a hundred Americans – and that is enough for public opinion to begin growing in a different direction.  

On the heels of this event is grim news from Theseus, news so urgent, he doesn’t bother with a letter, sending a _patronus_ instead. They had interrogated an enemy soldier thought to be a wizard, and it seems their suspicions are far from unfounded – the Germans and their allies don’t just have wizards mingling with their No-Maj forces at the front lines, no, they have dedicated factions comprised purely of wizards. They are unable to force more information regarding the enemies’ stance on the International Statute of Secrecy, whether they’ve decided to ignore it altogether, or if they’re still attempting to keep it _mostly_ a secret. The element of surprise against a No-Maj soldier is no small advantage.

(Unfortunately, their legilimens user had broken the man’s mind before they could learn more.)  

Theseus and Percival and Seraphina had discussed the possibility of this, and preparations had been underway for some of their own people to enlist with the British army. But with such a confirmation, the need for some way to respond in kind, particularly against those all-wizard factions became the priority. The stark advantage of having shield spells capable of withstanding shrapnel and bullets in frontal assaults of trench warfare needed to be levelled.

Things happened quickly after that. With occlumency shields slammed tight, Percival had met Jameson with a well-rehearsed beleaguered expression to request either a sabbatical or secondment to the British Auror Department so that he could be closer to his family in Ireland. Delicate and tricky matters of inheritance and other such things, you see. What with the war wreaking havoc with the Graves’ ancestral estate.

(It was, of course, a bold-faced lie. The Graves had up and left their home for New York in their _entirety_ , not that there had been many of them to start with. Any who had stayed had either been too stubborn or too old to travel and had long since passed on. But the Graves were tight lipped about their personal affairs, and nobody could claim otherwise.)

Jameson may not have liked Percival very much; he hated his guts, to be frank. But the arrogant bastard’s competence and professionalism could not be denied, and he knew better than to hinder the Graves family over a matter that concerned the family as a whole. He could and had enjoyed making life difficult for Percival – but he hadn’t managed to become Head Auror without knowing when to give. A little.

Ultimately, Percival proceeded to make a show of thanking Jameson for granting him a sabbatical. True, he had needed several showers after that display before he felt clean again, but it was done.  

Just one last matter to settle.

 

-x-

 

From the corner of his eye, he sees Erebus perk up. The owl chatters at him, and then he hears the rustling of fabric.

“Percival.”

“I considered that I might’ve had to leave before getting to tell you in person. Honestly, I’m a little impressed you’re actually here.”

“Well, you did get your point across rather sharply. ‘ _I’m leaving_.’ What else could I have done?”

“I’d – _we’d_ had enough waiting about,” he says, back still turned to Hadrian as he shuffles around his studio apartment, gathering things and stuffing them into a rucksack.

“Seraphina?”

“Yes, that’s who I meant by ‘we’. Of course, she cannot come along, so I’m going for both of us. It’s the long game for her if she wants to ensure her presidency after the war. Fuck, I hope it’ll have ended by then.”

“Percival,” Hadrian repeats quietly, a gentle touch to his shoulder. It takes everything he has not to shrug the hand off violently.

“You think I ought to have prevented this.”

He finally turns around, expression grim and frustrated. “You knew this war was coming. Mercy fucking Lewis, every time I think of that ridiculous, cryptic warning that you gave me, it just infuriates me all over again. Maybe it’s unfair, maybe my anger is misplaced, but you could have done _something_ – do you know how many lives have already been mindlessly lost?”

The complete lack of emotion on Hadrian’s face serves to remind Percival now of all damn times, that despite the body he assumes, Hadrian is unnatural. Other. Unnervingly, he does not even blink, merely stares at Percival with his too bright green eyes.

“I am _well_ aware of how many lives have been lost,” Hadrian finally says, voice soft and menacing. “But there are certain major events in the world that occur no matter the iteration. Could I have stopped it? _Possibly_ , but highly unlikely. This war is not the result of a single event or individual, Percival. Do not be obtuse. What you’re expecting of me is to override free will. But I did _not_ create this world, that is not my decision to make. I am _not_ as all-powerful as you may think I am. I, too, have my place and purpose. Should I reshape the world and its history in my image? Decide what does and does not happen?”

Hadrian takes another step closer.

His features regain some animation.

“You may not like it, but one can only hope you’ll come to accept, if not understand it.”

Hadrian reaches slowly for Percival’s cheek, projecting his movement. Cool fingers cradle a stubbled jaw. Despite himself, Percival leans just slightly into the touch. “Where will you go?”

“London. We’ve been working with Theseus Scamander. For now, it’s still a largely covert operation even in Britain since both our damn governments are happy sitting around with their thumbs up their asses. Seraphina is staying behind to continue with the supply effort. Easier for her to keep leading and helping in secret through a proxy if she remains on home soil. If America finally gets involved, then I’ll link back up. Even if it’s with the No-Maj army.”

“You’d best learn to shoot,” Hadrian murmurs.

“Will I see you?” Percival asks, thoughts going unbidden to the memory of him that night so many years ago – a foolish child’s disbelief and Death covered in bloodied robes.

A mirthless smile barely touches Hadrian’s lips. “Out of the corners of your eyes, amidst the killing.”

Percival startles at questing fingers that blithely flick open the top two buttons of his shirt, reaching beyond to press the cool metal of the pendant against his chest. It glows faintly beneath the man’s fingers.

“Be careful, Percival. I’ll see you again very soon.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First things first, the headlines are actual headlines, though I've taken some liberty with the sources because I'm not actually sure whether various cities were actually trading newspapers. In the order they appear: The Ogden Standard (July 28, 1914); The Washington Times (July 28, 1914); The Washington Times (August 3, 1914). The New York Times headline is as appears in the story. 
> 
> As much as the world wars have endlessly interested me, incorporating them in my stories has always felt verrrrrrry tricky. I did my best. Apologies if it was rather dodgy. We've not seen the last of it just yet :/
> 
> Also, tags have been updated. Never, never in a million years did I think I would ever be an author who had to use the 'slowburn' or 'slow build' tag. Used to wince each time (still do, tbh) I decided to read a story with that tag, and wondered why it ever seemed to be a necessary plot device. Famous. Last. Fucking. Words. I'm thumping my head against the desk, believe me.


	4. Act 1.4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ya girl's baaaaack. Guess which lightweight decided to chug a g&t as a stupid reward after having to stand outside for 50 minutes with the rest of the apartment block because we had to evacuate after some young 'un managed to set fire to their microwave. (just. HOW?) I am very tired, and slightly fuzzy, and i shall leave the proofreading to when I'm awake. 
> 
> (Apologies for the potential onslaught of typos with the current version of the chapter)
> 
> Also: Graphic Violence tags have been updated. Because war.

_ June 1916 _

“Well, hope you’ve been keeping up with that target practice of yours, Graves.”

“Somewhat,” Percival replies, glancing at Theseus when the man swans into the little corner they’ve staked out for themselves, joining him on the ground in a small dust cloud of uncoordinated limbs. “Why?”

Just as Theseus opens his mouth to speak, Percival impatiently throws up a wandless, wordless privacy spell with a flick of his fingers. It’s a rather shameless display of power, however unintentional, but it’s become a reflex these days, what with them constantly being surrounded by No-Majs. Never stops the other man from raising his brows at him, though.

“We’re heading to France after all. Not to the other lads in Verdun, though,” Theseus says, keeping his voice low. “We’re going a little ways south. Thing is, seems like it’s become a largely British operation now. The French have to keep the bulk of their forces at Verdun.”

“We were called in as support, Scamander,” Percival remarks darkly.

“Higher ups still think it’ll be a quick offensive, a strategic victory for the Allied forces regardless. We’re in the right place, Graves, chin up. If this is significant enough for the commanders, I’ll bet the enemy will gladly bring in the trump cards. Or, well, the trump cards will invite themselves to the party,” Theseus pauses, then offers a sharp grin. “Much like we are, I suppose.”

“Any word from our groups at Verdun?”

Theseus grimaces.

“Not since last month. I’ve not dared send a _patronus_ either,” he murmurs. “Odds probably aren’t good. We’ve all heard about the losses.”

“When do we move out?”

“Tomorrow afternoon at the latest, I imagine.”

“Right,” Percival mutters, catching himself as his fingers sneak beneath the coarse fabric of his uniform, searching for the pendant. He relents after a moment, allows his fingers to trace the edges of the pendant.

He doesn’t notice Theseus’ curious eyes.  

 

\---

 

_ July - November 1916 _

It is a relative thing, to say Percival was one of the lucky ones on the day the Allied forces launched their Somme campaign.

The number of casualties along the British front had been staggering, easily numbering in the sixteen thousands by the end of the first day alone. Two days later, British HQ believed the figure to have been in the region of forty thousand instead.

Percival and Theseus had been with the XIII Corps and the 30th Division of the New Army, stationed at the Southern flank of the British line, and participants to one of few British victories in the opening day of the Battle of Albert.

By one o’clock, they had broken through the German line and captured the village of _Montauban._

It was a heady thing, to realise they had actually managed their objective so quickly. They hadn’t encountered any wizards in that initial advance, at least none that caught either of their attention. In the face of German retreat, and the slow ebb of adrenaline that had fuelled Percival for the past five hours giving way to fatigue, neither Percival nor Theseus were inclined to look a gift horse in the mouth when the order came from Fourth Army HQ, halting any further advance for the day.

But hindsight is 20/20, and they soon pay the price of General Rawlinson’s decision. In the time that the 30th Division could have forged on, the Germans are given precious time to re-group and strengthen their positions, reinforcing their posts throughout the horseshoe of woods surrounding _Montauban._ If the Allies are to proceed, the German forces in the four surrounding forests needed to be attacked from their two flanks – the village of _Contalmaison_ on the left, and _Tr_ _ônes Wood_ on the right.

The XIII Corps is given the task of capturing the latter before the second general assault planned for the 14th of July.

It is this objective that truly hammers in the reality of this entire undertaking through Percival’s thick skull. As an auror, Percival would have had to be a paper-pusher in order to escape the grim and harsh visual lessons of the human capacity to inflict brutality and cruelty on each other. After years, he has understood the gift of compartmentalisation and the unashamed necessity of desensitisation. He has a job to do, and being incapacitated at the sight of gore, drowning in one’s empathy and compassion in the face of a human body being turned into a canvass of unnatural splatters would be counterproductive.

And yet.

At the rate things were going, Percival hardly expected to walk away from this mess with his humanity intact. He had been warned of the same when becoming an auror; but he’s sure nobody could have foreseen a war breaking out on this scale to all but guarantee what being an auror only  _might_ cause.

The carnage is unending. That is the difference.

There is no escape, not in rest, not in the periods between charges. There is no respite as between _cases_ , no time to carefully fortify his mental walls at the earliest sign of even a hairline fracture. The mutilated bodies are there when he closes his eyes, the lifeless, soulless gazes when he opens his eyes. The way his allies are shot down like flies, gunned down by machine gun fire – and _oh_ does he fucking hate machine guns – Percival is increasingly convinced there is little point in getting acquainted with anybody. With the ludicrously high mortality rate, he’d just be sparing himself further pain when they died.

And. Fucking. Yet.

Despite such thoughts, against all better judgement, Percival and Theseus stand out as the dogged few survivors of each charge within the ever-changing composition of their section during the capture of _Tr_ _ônes Wood_. And soon, they find themselves gaining a small group of men like some pseudo-strike team, assigned by their platoon commander at the urgent recommendation of their section leader.

Percival understood the logic behind the decision, of course. How could he not? Rather than letting their numbers get slaughtered against the line of machine gun nests by simply throwing rows and rows of men at incoming fire and letting the fact that they were largely _untrained_ volunteers reveal itself in the worst setting imaginable, it was only sound leadership to consolidate and concentrate whatever power they had along the attack line. To exploit whatever ounce of potential advantage they had. This way, the chances of covering more ground could only rise.

But, Merlin damn it, this meant having to be responsible for, if not at the very least having to watch the backs of a specific group of individuals. It meant becoming emotionally invested in the wellbeing of people who had a staggeringly high chance of dying.

 

-x-

 

Back at the end of the first day on the Somme, after Percival and Theseus had had the time to acknowledge how free they’d eventually been with their spellcasting when the fighting had been at its messiest, the pair had made a bet. Half-dazed by the sharp crash from their adrenaline high, and the realisation that the only reason they hadn’t broken the Statute and Rappaport’s Law had been because those who had ostensibly witnessed their magic were dead, they’d made a bet as to when they would almost inadvertently be revealed.

Percival had the equivalent of ten galleons on either of them being discovered within three months. Theseus bet the same on either of them being discovered within two months.

Theseus wins, of course the bastard does, when Percival is forced to reveal himself in the first week of August. Five weeks after the bet was made.

On the 14th of July, the two of them had been approached by their faintly apologetic looking section leader as they had been resting. Just a few hours ago, they had been part of the twenty-two thousand soldiers involved in one of the riskiest gambles they’d ever known. But orders were orders, and they had assembled in complete darkness and crossed nearly a thousand yards of No Man’s Land to get as close to the German trenches as they could. The hurricane bombardment that lit up the sky in the early hours of the morning successfully came as a surprise to the Germans, unlike the leaked disaster on the 1st. All things considered, by the end of the assault that followed, the _Bazentine-Ridge_ General Rawlinson so wanted had been acquired with minimal casualties.

With the cover of smoke and the still weak sunlight, Percival and Theseus had made the decision to be rather liberal with their use of shield charms on themselves and those around them. The survival rate of their little area as they advanced against the enemy must have been noticeable enough, because what came out of their section leader’s mouth was the informal issuance of their respective groups of men (though he certainly took pains to only _indirectly_ appoint them leaders) and the orders to join up with the attacks on _High Wood_ even though the rest of the 30th Division would not be involved. They were at least given till the end of the day to rest.

Quite frankly, the only positive thing to come out of shoving these new, unofficial strike-teams into the attacks against _High Wood_ is the forging of camaraderie and trust by sheer necessity at a greatly accelerated rate, cutting through most of the waffling and posturing that is sure to have existed in any other circumstance. All the variables are there, primed and ready in the worst possible way – a common enemy, a common suffering, a common desire for survival. Any reluctance and belligerence quickly give way to Percival’s obvious competence and the increasing number of miraculously close shaves with death.

The fact that this operation draws itself out into a long, bloody two months just solidifies their existence as a team.

 

\---

 

“I don’t know that symbol, mate.”

Percival blinks out of his daze. He’s caught his mind drifting more often these days, at least whenever there is permission to be idle. It’s probably a consequence of heavily relying on his occlumency shields, but Percival doesn’t have much spare energy to contemplate the matter any further than that.

He glances down at his fingers, frozen in its repetitive tracing of the edges of the triangle.

“Them one of those fancy cult things you toffs got nothin’ better t’do than join?”

Percival gamely rolls his eyes and shoots Tomlinson a sharp grin. For the most part, the group of them have grown accustomed to working together in fights, but that hasn't stopped them from testing the waters in other aspects whenever there was down time, Percival _knows_  this. The whole _bit_ reminds him of his early years at Ilvermorny, really, and he knows better than to take it personally if he wants to maintain the rapport he has with the others in this hell hole.

“No, _this_ toff had a lot of other things stealing his time, thank you,” Percival drawls, twisting his lips into a smirk. He goes against old reflexes and instead lifts the pendant a little higher, lets it be seen more clearly. Tomlinson leans in, seemingly despite himself, and squints but doesn’t touch. Percival can appreciate that respect. Or suspicion. Whatever it is.

“It’s something of a good luck charm, is all. I’ve had it since I was a child,” Percival says quietly.

“Well,” Tomlinson huffs, sheepish. “Right, then. Nobody gonna turn down a little bit more luck these days. Hope you’ll share some o’that with the lot of us, sir.”

“You know it’s impossible to take you seriously when you call me ‘sir’, Tomlinson. We’re the same rank.”

“Yeah, but we both also know that that’s bollocks as well. ‘s so clear that yer used to leading, Graves. Dunno if yer only the same rank as us ‘cause yer a Yank, but whatever it is, it don’ quite matter to us these days, does it?” he says, looking over his shoulder to the murmured assent of the other seven men huddled nearby.

Percival just shakes his head with exasperated fondness.

Not three days later, Percival is reminded of this little exchange when he has his hands drenched in blood and slipping against the gaping wound in Baxendale’s belly. He hears himself bark an order for _somebody_ to take over so he can make for his wand. Naturally, it has to be Tomlinson who throws himself down beside Percival, grimy hands quickly replacing Percival’s. He’s a taller, bigger man than Percival, and has a little more success in holding together the halves of Baxendale’s skin.

Percival hastily runs through the list of healing spells in his repertoire before settling for the strongest, but harshest one he knows.

“Keep him still, this is going to hurt him even more,” he warns. Without wasting another moment, Percival hovers the tip of his wand and starts the melodic incantation under his breath. It is slow work and excruciating for both parties. Percival’s hands are trembling by the time he’s finished and he’s drenched in cold sweat, but it works, and the only evidence of Baxendale having essentially been _disembowelled_ is a very thick line of scarring.

Percival lets himself fall back on his ass and catches his breath. With a still trembling hand, he moves to return his wand to the holster when it finally registers how unsettlingly quiet their little shelter (that’s really just a deep crater from several rounds of bombardment, he’s sure) has become. There’s still the usual chaos of gunfire and explosions, but it’s all in the background. None of his men are returning fire. He screws his eyes shut when the realisation slams into him with all the grace of a hammer.

“What the fuck,” somebody behind him whispers, finally breaking the silence.

Percival lifts his head and opens his eyes to meet Tomlinson’s horrified stare.

Only, it’s not so much horror as it is an intensity laced with satisfaction.

“Are you going to shoot me?” Percival asks evenly.

“Fucking. _Knew_. It. Looks like you lads owe me and Fletcher two smokes each,” Tomlinson says cheerily, though his eyes do not leave Percival’s.

“Aw, fuck you, Tomsy,” comes the overlapping grumbles and protests. “Shoulda’ known better than to bet against your superstitious arse.”

Percival is exhausted and so, so confused.

“You all had a bet on whether I’m a wizard?”

“A _wizard_? That’s what you are, then? We weren’t sure what, exactly. But we had a feeling you was unnatural.”

“You shimmer a lot, sir.”

“Shimmer?” Percival splutters.

“Yeah, and then shit bounces off ye. Ya made a few of us shimmer at times too.”

“Was you lying about that pendant, then?” Tomlinson gestures vaguely at Percival’s chest. He, too, rocks back from his kneeling, and just sits there. 

Percival isn’t sure what to process first – the fact that they’ve all apparently decided now was the perfect time for a chat like there isn’t a fucking fire fight occurring over their heads; or that they’re taking his ‘abnormality’ so calmly.

“I – No, I wasn’t lying. It’s just a necklace, it was a gift when I was a child, and I do think of it as a good luck charm,” Percival races through his reply. “But more importantly, how are you all so calm about this?”

“Graves, Sir,” Bryant pipes up, sounding equal parts amused and exhausted. “We’re in the middle of a fucking war. Not sure we’ve got much to spare for being surprised. Besides, you’ve done nothing but try to protect us with yer… mojo. And you just saved Baxe over there. ‘s fucking unreal, but we’re not gonna question shit when yer not harming us.”

“Could always use a bit of good luck, aye?” Tomlinson says, an echo of their previous exchange.

“Right,” Percival draws out the word. “This… This is supposed to be a secret. It’s our law. So, I’d be grateful if this doesn’t get out any further.”

He gets a wave of murmured agreement.

Just like that.

Fucking war. Unbelievable.

And then he recalls his own bet with Theseus, and curses viciously under his breath. 

 

-x-

 

When last they’d met, Hadrian had told Percival that he could be seen out of the corners of his eyes amidst the killing. Presumably lingering along the fringes of the battlefield. At least, that’s the image that comes to his mind.  In truth, Percival never has the time to focus on anything beyond the immediate vicinity - out of the corners of his eyes or no.

The first that Percival glimpses of Hadrian, the weather has begun to grow much cooler and it won't be long before his breaths are visible puffs of air. It’s his turn  that evening, to patrol and stand guard against any possible sneak attacks during the temporary truce. As had become a wary gesture of goodwill and _trust_ , both sides had seemingly agreed that once night fell, all fighting ceased and it became a time to retrieve their dead and injured from No Man’s Land.

Funnily enough, it is somebody from his team that finally locates Hadrian for him.

The youngest of his men, Williams, joins him in his patrol. He’s a soft-spoken young man, still a boy, really; but he’s deadly with his aim, and quick on his feet.

“Sir, beggin’ ye pardon, but I had a question about yer… thing,” he whispers, leaning a little closer where they look out into the hazy stretch of land beyond them.

“Come on, Williams. That just sounds like you’re talking about my crotch,” Percival sighs.

“Sorry, Sir,” Williams says hastily. “It’s just – some of us was wonderin if you knew anything about… the ghost that shows up on No Man’s Land.”

Percival’s brain stalls for a moment. He’s seen ghosts, of course. Most, if not all, witches and wizards have seen ghosts, _known_ ghosts before. He’s yet to see one here. But…

“What does the ghost look like?”

“Well, we all agree it looks male, and in his thirties, and he’s always dressed in a cloak. No hood drawn, tho,” Williams lists off his fingers. “Oh, and he’s not transparent, not really. Messy black hair and freakishly green eyes.”

Percival feels like his heart stops for a moment.

“We alls thought he was just a weird lad the first time any of us ever seen him. But then soldiers just pass right through him, and he’s sometimes a lil’ fuzzy around the edges. Always stops by the dead or injured though. Just kneels beside them, calm as anything, like there’s not a war going on around him.”

Percival barely hides his grimace.

“He’s not a bad omen. Nothing to actually worry about. But, you’re right,” Percival finally finds his voice. “He does sound like a ghost. They do exist. Usually because when they died, they strongly felt that they had unfinished business in the world and refused to move on.”

“Oh,” the young man breathes. “D’you – D'you think it might’ve been a medic who died? Since he only ever bothers the casualties.”

“Maybe,” Percival replies easily, though he twitches at the word ‘bothers’. No, he knows what this _ghost_ was doing, and it was deserving of a much kinder word than that.

“Y’know, we might actually be able to see him. If ye focus on the furthest edges of No Man’s Land, ‘is figure usually comes into focus somewhere – Oh,” Williams cuts himself off.

Percival looks over at the little gasp, then follows the quivering finger Williams points with. He won’t need to follow the boy’s instructions on how to bring Hadrian into focus, not now that he _knows_.

Sure enough, in the next breath, Percival looks out into the field and there is a little figure swaying slowly, weaving about the uneven terrain, just beyond where the soldiers and medics from either side are retrieving their casualties.

The knowledge of having _seen_ him, the very _thought_ of him, never fails to wrench forth a storm of conflicting feelings in his chest these days. The confrontation they’d parted on, though it seems an age ago, still rubs him the wrong way. He understands what Hadrian had said, he does. But this is his reality now, the endless dead and dying surrounding him day and night, and a part of him still rages at the belief, however slight, that _he_ could have done _something_.

 

\---

 

_ September 1916 _

After _High Wood_ is firmly in the hands of the Allied forces, Percival and his team are finally given a proper rest, not just a rotation in the secondary or reserve trenches. Though only three days, they are given precious leave in England proper.

He’s sipping on something masquerading as whiskey in the pub closest to the army camp he was assigned quarters in when he feels somebody tap his shoulder. He _just_ suppresses a violent jerk, his hand makes an aborted grab for his rifle which isn’t there.

“Shit,” the voice says, vaguely familiar. “Terribly sorry, Perce. I really ought to know better.”

“Theseus,” Percival murmurs in relief, shoulders immediately slumping. “Fucking hell, Theseus.”

The man slips into the bar stool on his right, sincerely apologetic expression on his boyish face.

“It’s good to see you,” Percival says, shaking his head.

“Likewise,” Theseus replies with a grin.

They fall back into the easy rhythm of conversation that they’d cultivated in the months leading up to their deployment, catching each other up on news from their respective underground operations back home. News is slow to reach them and to send out given the ludicrous impossibility of relying on owl post to reach them at the front lines. No, mail had to reach them the same slow way the other No-Maj soldiers received theirs, though it was a different story once the letters actually arrived in England. Once they were intercepted by one of theirs who worked in the mail department of the army, the missives could then be handled by the usual owl postal service. Still, it lengthened the process.

Theseus tells him about the loss of two men in his team, asks Percival how _his_ team fares. He offers his condolences, but answers all the same that he’s been lucky and there haven’t been any lasting casualties. Yet. Theseus arches a brow at the ‘yet’, but otherwise makes no comment.

He natters on to lighter topics, somewhat cheerfully updates Percival on the status of his little brother. Newt, Percival discovers, is part of a covert British Ministry of Magic operation attempting to capture and tame _dragons_ of all damn things in the Eastern Front. So far, Newt is the only one in the operation that remains unscathed and on strangely good terms with the great beasts. Percival isn’t too sure what to make of this information.

In return, Percival informs Theseus that Seraphina thinks that No-Maj America is finally on the brink of declaring its official entrance into the war. There’s little public word by wizarding America, but Sera doesn’t think it likely that their government will permit wizarding involvement. Not with the blind, dogged prioritisation of Rappaport’s Law colouring their decision-making. And on that blasted note, Percival reluctantly asks if Theseus has blown his cover as a no-maj.

“Noo,” Theseus draws out the word, insufferable smirk growing on his face. “I’m assuming you have, O Great Stealthy Deputy Head Auror. Go on, tell ol’ Theseus how it happened.”

“Healing one of my men who had his lower belly ripped open by shrapnel,” Percival deadpans. It gets the sobering effect he’d been aiming for.

“Oh,” Theseus says. “Well, fuck.”

“Indeed,” Percival says primly, doing his best imitation of Sera. He takes a truly regrettable sip of his drink to hammer in the point.

“You’re not getting out of the ten galleons, though.”

 

-x-

 

He fights with himself over this decision, but after the discussion with Theseus when they’d both had several drinks in them, he thinks the only harm in asking will be further disappointment in the man. But that’s something he’s unhappily coming to realise he must accept as a fact. And perhaps at the heart of it, he’s to blame for having expectations in the first place.

Percival finds a quiet, deserted corner of the camp grounds, a slight distance from the makeshift sleeping quarters and lights up a slightly crumpled hand-rolled cigarette from his pocket with a snap of his fingers. He squares his shoulders and exhales the smoke in a long breath. Percival fishes out the pendant with his free hand, and closes his eyes.

“I know you’re busy and this isn’t… strictly _dire_ , but if you hear this, please come to me. I need your help.”

It’s telling that unlike the first and only other time Percival has ever summoned Hadrian, he doesn’t materialise in the span of mere heartbeats. No, this time, Percival has almost smoked the cigarette down to its little filter before Hadrian appears between one blink and another.

He looks wearily at the cloaked figure.

“Thank you,” Percival simply says.

“Glad to see you’re alright, Percy,” Hadrian says evenly, his face betraying none of his thoughts. “Relatively speaking, of course.”

“Of course.”

“How may I help you?” Hadrian asks briskly, though it is not necessarily unkind.

“I have concerns after Theseus confirmed that he, too, has yet to face a wizard-only section of enemy soldiers. We’ve encountered the odd one here and there, but nothing to back up Theseus’ initial reports. Granted, it was gathered based on a different battle,” Percival fiddles absently with the pendant still in his fingers.

“You want a warning.”

“Yes, if it’s at all possible. Nothing much, I know better than to expect active intervention from y—” Percival shuts himself up before the bitterness that wells up inside him can do further damage.

He clears his throat, forces himself to meet impassive green eyes.

“Sorry.”

“You’re not entirely wrong. And no, you’re not. Let’s not lie, shall we? No need to fear I’ll _smite_ you or something for being rude, Percy.”

“Will you do it?”

Hadrian lets him stew for an unnecessarily long moment; he just  _knows_ it’s deliberate. But then, Hadrian nods sharply.

“I’ll come to you when their plans seem clearer. I hope it works, Percy. But you know you cannot be everywhere at once, you cannot maintain however many shield charms you might cast. Not while having to direct your attention to an entire _group_ of wizards.”

“I’m aware.”

Hadrian takes a step back. He offers a final nod and with a murmured “Be safe”, he vanishes.

As Percival stares at the space Hadrian had previously occupied, he realises that this is the first time the man hadn't reached for him, the first time he hadn't cradled his cheek with such _fondness_. Hadrian hadn’t come close at all, not even to press his fingers against his own sigil.

He feels something in his chest tighten, and ice creeps its way into his lungs. He wishes it didn’t fucking _hurt_ so much.

Gritting his teeth, Percival drops the used cigarette and grinds it under his heel.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo... I tried, oh how I tried to stay historically accurate. But trying to cram and understand these WWI events in less than a week (family obligations had me losing several days) was stupidly difficult. And it was liable to keep me trapped in a paranoid loop until I lost all interest. And I wanted to avoid that at all costs. This story will be seen to completion, dammit.
> 
> No offence is meant WHATSOEVER by any inaccuracies. There are, of course, elements that are blatantly made up and the involvement of the 30th Division and it's sub-groups is especially made up because of the lack of information. Anyway, please take it all with a pinch of salt.
> 
> I'm hoping to wrap up Act 1 by the next chapter so we can finally plunge into the time period of the story and its events that had been the main reason for this story's existence to begin with. This entire first act reads like a ridiculously long prologue in my mind. 
> 
> Thanks for reading and I'll finally be able to reply to comments from the previous chapter too! Sorry for the delay!


	5. Act 1.5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve been travelling, I’ve been mad busy, I’ve been trying to churn out this pain in the ass chapter. Enjoy. Longer, rambling notes at the end.
> 
> EDIT: If you're interested, the songs that come to mind for this chapter - Kachou Fuugetsu by Aimer; Inochi no Namae by Hisaishi Joe (but sung by Hirahara Ayaka); Remember by Uru.

_ Early 1918 _

_“‘There must be no retirement. With our backs to the wall and believing in the justice of our cause each one must fight on to the end.’”_

“Eh?”

“Nice one, Baxe. You don’t sound like a great pillock _at all_.”

“Fuck off Bryant. Was busy cleaning me rifle, aye? And _no_ , don’t you fuckin’ start, I mean this here weapon – ”

“You just wish the girls think yer packin’ a weapon, Baxe, c’mon.”

Percival rolls his eyes and scrunches up the bit of telegram he’d just read off of. He hurls it with enviable accuracy and watches it bounce off Bryant’s head.

“Thanks, sir,” Baxendale murmurs, faint flush dusting his grimy face.  

“That, gentlemen, was the order by General Haig. Granted, several days delayed in reaching us, but I hope it’s got you _galvanised_.”

“My arse is sat on damp mud, I‘m surrounded by damp mud and smelly bastards – no offence, sir, ‘s not yer fault ye not smelling like roses – but oh, aye, I‘m feelin’ right _galvanised_. Think I feel a war cry stirrin’ in m’throat.”

“No offence taken, Fletcher. I’m not sure my sense of smell even works anymore. Small mercies, I suppose.”

“What’s the plan, sir?” Williams asks politely, still so bright-eyed, and bless him, Graves almost reaches out to fluff the boy’s hair.

“We’re going to join the others at Kemmel Ridge, help fend off the high ground from the German attack.”

“Any word about your lot being involved? Not you Yanks, I mean. But, _y’know_ ,” Morris asks, helpfully flailing his hand a little. He throws in eyebrow wiggles for good measure.

“No, thankfully,” Percival replies, arching a brow at the ‘wand-waving’.

True to his word, Hadrian had taken to sending what Percival thinks is a deliberately weakened form of _patronus_ , wispy and incorporeal as it is. Peculiarly, it doesn’t deliver a message in his voice so much as it makes a bee-line for Percival, sinking into him and delivering its message as an echo in his mind. Far less conspicuous, he has to give him that.

Although… just because there’s presumably no wizard-only strike teams in the coming fight does not mean there won’t be wizards spread amongst the enemies. It doesn’t mean Percival can be any less guarded, any less protective of his men.

It goes about as well as can be expected. The First Battle of Kemmel is a success, for a given meaning of that word at least. The British manage to endure the German attack, and there’re a few days of light fighting that follow. But a week later, just as the French division arrives to relieve them, the Germans attack again and everything gets _Totally and Royally Fucked Up_.

In the chaos of the attack by the Germans that began in the dead of night, the French soldiers stationed at the village situated at the base of the ridge were steadily forced to retreat, clustering at the summit by morning as the Germans took to the slopes. It was just Percival’s luck that their little team had been among the last of the British forces awaiting replacement by the French that night, and inadvertently found themselves drawn into the fray.

As the hours drag on to _days_ , it becomes increasingly clear that the chances of success are dwindling. The Germans are seemingly unafraid of simply throwing _bodies_ their way, as if they were so expendable. This blasted hill that had served as England’s pride and joy, offering the best vantage point for miles to keep watch over Ypres, is soon to be lost cause. In the rising desperation, some of Percival’s team are forcibly separated and there is no time to track them down just yet.

Even as the sun disappears beyond the horizon on the 25th, the fighting continues well into the night and it is then that Percival encounters three German wizards blasting their way through the masses without a care in the Merlin-damned world.  

Just three wizards. In any other circumstance, this is hardly a challenge to Percival. In fact, regardless of it being a _war_ , it shouldn’t have been a challenge. He’s faced down and protected his men against groups comprised only of wizards whilst besieged with No-Maj enemies.

It shouldn’t have been a challenge – but it is.

One minute he’s throwing up a non-verbal _protego maxima,_ in the next there’s a magical bombardment against the shield, and it reeks of dark magic. In retrospect, perhaps it truly couldn’t have gone any differently, but Percival overlooks a _fourth_ wizard who emerges behind them, slipping past their shambles of a line and the scope of his shield charm. The shimmer of his disillusionment charm catches Percival’s eye just in time for him to deflect the curse flung their way. He wrenches the disillusionment away, and the sadistic twist of the man’s lips barely registers in his mind before he fucking stumbles over a dead body, that fraction of a second more than enough for Percival to hear a hissed _‘crucio’_ before he screams. The magic is heavily tainted by its caster’s nature, his capacity for cruelty and sadism so potent as it manifests in the crippling, white-hot waves of agony that rips through all of Percival’s already weakened and depleted defences.

The torture abruptly cuts off when someone bodily tackles the bastard to the ground, but the damage is done. Without Percival maintaining the shield charms, they dissolve and the window of opportunity is immediately seized.  

The last things Percival sees are streaks of luminescent red and the blur of a body lunging his way.

Then his world cuts to black.

 

\---

 

_ 1918 _

Percival cannot remember much of his last few days in the war. He wakes up alone in a tiny white room with vague flashes of frantic screaming, the rhythmic firing of machine guns and impressions of panic. It makes his heart race and his palms clammy. He isn’t aware he’s hyperventilating until a nurse rushes into the room, the slamming of the door jerking his head in her direction.

“Auror Graves, a calming draught – this is a calming draught. You’re safe, you’re in New York. Can you hear me? You’re in St Jouge’s.” she says, one hand gripping his shoulder firmly, the other pressing the open vial gently against his mouth.

When Percival next awakens, Seraphina is perched on a chair beside his bed. It has been some months since he last saw her, perhaps even longer – he has no idea what day it is, no idea how long he’s been unconscious. There are wisps of hair that escape her headdress, smudges under her eyes that have begun to peek through the glamour she’s cast. Her brows furrow over the stack of documents she’s hunched over, and so she misses Percival’s bleary attempt at opening his eyes.

He twitches his fingers closer to the hand that Sera rests on his bed.

“Percival,” she finally gasps, relief flooding the tense lines of her face.

“What day is it?” he rasps. He tries to wet his throat, but it is painfully dry.  

“26th November,” Seraphina answers as she brings a cup of water closer to Percival. “You were severely injured and the No-Majs made it worse. They did try to keep you alive, and the non-magical wounds were treated well enough – but the bulk of the damage came from a dark curse. It got worse as they bounced you from field hospital to field hospital until they could get you to England. You were finally admitted to St Mungo’s, but a magically induced-coma was the safest option by that point.”

Percival slowly processes her words. It’s been seven months. Merlin’s beard, it’s been seven months, and if he’s back in New York –

“How did I end up back – I am in New York, yes? I faintly remember a nurse…”

“Once your identity was registered in the system, it raised some flags, and MACUSA was notified. Naturally, we wanted you back in American territory. You were brought home about three weeks ago.”

“My men – do you know what happened to them?” Percival asks, the thought slams into him, sudden and unbidden.

“The war ended on the 18th of November, Percival. It’s over.”

“Wha- for fuck’s sake, Sera. You could have led with that,” Percival hisses. “But that’s not an answer. Do you have any idea what happened to them?”

“All but one of them didn’t make it, Percival, I’m sorry. There were memorials held at the sites of the major offensives a week ago. Ypres among them, of course. You’d already come out of your coma but you were barely coherent and only awake for mere minutes at a time. You couldn’t have gone back.”

 “Who –,” Percival has to clear his throat, the words getting miserably stuck. “Who made it?”

Sera looks like she wants to take his hand in hers, but refrains. “A… Tomlinson?”

Percival doesn’t bother to stop the wet laugh that bubbles from his chest, “Of fucking course the bastard managed to survive. Fuck – ” Whatever else he thought to continue rambling with is lost as Percival buries his face in his hands. The burning behind his eyes surprises him, so abrupt and overwhelming, he fails to choke back the first sob.

Percival is tired, so damn tired and everything _hurts_.

“Perce,” Seraphina calls gently. “Tomlinson sent this back a few weeks ago when he found out you were alive and back in New York.”

She spares him the indignity of having to lift his tear-streaked face, simply draws a hand just close enough for her to wrap his fingers around the cool edges of a metal object.

Percival feels his heart lurch at the sight of the pendant he hadn’t even known he’d lost. Seven months – had Hadrian left him alone and possibly close to dying for seven months? How in Merlin’s name did something that once felt so special and _safe_ become so _forgettable_?

“Did he show up?”

Seraphina frowns. “I summoned him. St. Mungo’s had stabilized you enough for the transfer to St. Jouge’s, but there wasn’t much improvement. So, I tried summoning him. He wasn’t pleased that somebody other than you had been attempting to use the pendant. But he came when I explained that it was _for_ you. He said nothing the entire time he was here. He just purged the dark curse, then left you to come out of the coma yourself.”

Both of them refrain from giving voice to the heavy question that grows between them – why hadn’t Hadrian known? Yes, Hadrian had long ago told Percival to summon him with the sigil. But with the blood oath… for a being so powerful, it was difficult to believe that the pendant had to be in contact with Percival for Hadrian to be aware.

Wilful ignorance isn’t something Percival is familiar with; and it leaves him feeling hollow.

“Percival,” Seraphina says. The wary gentleness sets off the alarms in Percival’s mind, this persistent attempt of hers to be considerate is far too much like her approaching a cornered animal. He would much rather she be as blunt and self-possessed as she usually is.

“There’s more that you need to be briefed on, Perce. But I’d like to hold off a little longer, just until you’re more settled,” she says calmly. “And I must _insist_ that you do not try to reach out to Tomlinson or the families of the others just yet. At least not until we’ve spoken again.”

Percival scrubs the tearstains from his cheeks with frustrated swipes of his hand.

“Seraphina, I’m not made of glass. I appreciate the consideration, but just get it over with, please.”

Seraphina purses her lips, a facsimile of her familiar glower taking residence on her face. She relents with a huff.

“Very well. MACUSA has issued an Obliviation Decree.”

Percival doesn’t trust himself to speak, disbelief and anger storming into the mix of grief and dread.

“MACUSA knows it would be nearly impossible to track down every single individual who chose to interact with the No-Majs despite Rappaport’s Law, so they’re looking specifically to the more notable individuals. People like you.”

“They want to make an example of me,” Percival remarks, voice tight and low. “If I refuse?”

“You know what will happen,” Seraphina replies, frowning. “This is as much punishment for being hailed a war hero as it is an opportunity for them to reinforce how seriously they intend to continue treating Rappaport’s Law. A warning to the public.”

“Have you obliviated anybody?”

“Yes,” Seraphina blithely answers. “There weren’t many. The proxy system we set up did its job for the most part.”

Percival meets her gaze, tightly controlled rage seething behind his eyes.

“And you just expect me to do it, don’t you? Make sure that at the end of the day, I’m still visibly under MACUSA’s control.”

“We both knew none of this was going to be easy, but we were willing to do whatever it took. You pledged your support to me, Percival. Or have you forgotten?”

Percival’s eyes grow flinty at the challenge in her voice.

“Is there a deadline for the order, _Nominee_ Picquery?” he asks, voice soft but incapable of keeping the bite out of his words.

Seraphina narrows her eyes at him. “A month from your official discharge date from the hospital.”

“Will that be all?”

Percival forces the tension from his shoulders. He’s left feeling completely drained once more.

“Yes,” Seraphina says stiffly. She rises to her feet, brushes off invisible lint from her blouse and gathers her papers neatly.

“I’ll leave you to your rest.”

Almost grudgingly, Seraphina pauses by the door to look over her shoulder at him.

“For whatever it’s worth, I _am_ glad you’re finally back home, Percival.”

Percival fists the thin hospital sheets in his hands.

“It’s good to see you too, Sera.”

 

-x-

 

How do you return to the way things were? How do you go back to a time when your heart didn’t hammer against your ribs, and ice didn’t fill your veins at every loud noise?

Percival doesn’t know.

These days, he isn’t sure he has the energy to find an answer. Most of the time, going through the motion, focusing on seeing the end of each day occupies him well enough.

But today – today is an exception and there is much that needs to be done.

Percival checked himself out of the hospital by sheer stubbornness alone a few days ago. Although his body is still weak from being in a coma for so long, remaining stuck in the broom closet of a hospital room had been doing absolutely nothing for his head. Besides, he was due a visit soon, and Percival would rather suffer an emotionally debilitating day all at once, than drag it out.

So, he uses the portkey he guilt-tripped out of Seraphina, and grimaces at the pain that sweeps through his body once he arrives. It takes a minute to breathe his way through the agony.

Percival slowly makes his way through the rows and rows of still crudely made crosses that cover the uneven ground. It is an obscene hour of the morning, but Percival had wanted it so. He has no desire to have the coming conversation in the presence of anybody else. It will be difficult enough as it is.

He comes to a stop before a large stone monument, upon which a heart-wrenching number of names are carved. Rows and rows of names in morbid likeness to the graves lined behind him. Percival carefully goes through the carvings, making certain he finds the names of each and every one of his men who had died. With each name, Percival feels the numbness in him steadily give way to an odd sensation – of pressure that grows more and more crushing. He lets down his occlumency shields – they have no place here. His men deserve that much.

Once every name is found, Percival closes his eyes and bows his head. Then he speaks. He isn’t sure what he ought to say, so he begins with the first thing that comes to mind and he begins with an apology. Percival whispers under his breath, breathing words like a man in prayer.

“I should have been there afterwards, I never wanted to abandon all of you. I should have been there – Seraphina hasn’t been able to give me a proper report about what happened, just that Tomlinson is the only other survivor. I… _fuck_. I want to find your families, speak to them, offer them a personal apology as any damn commander should. I wish there was something, _anything_ that I could return to your families. I can only hope the army has already seen to that. And I know, I know, I’m not making much sense – why in Merlin’s name do I not _know_ any of this?”

Percival starts pacing a short, tight circuit, stirring up the gravel.

“Do you remember that law I told you boys about? Why you had to keep what I am a secret? My government’s clamping down hard on that fucking law because of the number of us that got ourselves involved in this war despite their isolationist bullshit. Public opinions changed as the No-Majs’ did and they’re calling me a _war hero_. MACUSA’s not exactly happy about this. They can’t punish a war hero, can they? But it doesn’t mean they can’t screw me over, though.”

Percival ceases his prowling, turns to face his men upon the wall.

“I get to visit Tomsy, boys. They’re allowing me that much – but only so I can make him forget. My hands are tied. I have to be _seen_ obeying the Obliviation Decree; my _job_ , my part in a friend’s ascent to power is at stake. But between you and me,” Percival looks down at his hands. “There are days when I want nothing to do with this game anymore. Days when I wish my loyalty to her meant nothing, and my pride would let me forsake my job just so I don’t need to feel like MACUSA’s dog.”

Percival consciously flexes his fingers where they’ve curled into a fist.

When he finds that he has run out of words, Percival just lets himself lapse into silence. In his heart, he swears he will make the time to visit them every year, ensure their individual graves are cared for.

His throat is parched, and he’s aching all over. But it is not over.

Percival fishes the pendant out of his shirt. It’s all in his head, of course it is, but never has it felt so lifeless and cold. He grips the necklace until the metal edges bite into his skin, and he calls for him.

Dead leaves rustle a short distance away. Percival doesn’t bother to look over his shoulder. Hadrian is there, he knows it.

Neither spares the other a greeting.

A heavy, tense silence lingers in the air, but Percival lets it fester a touch longer.

“I never wanted this. After that first day on the Somme, seeing so many around me die in the blink of an eye, Theseus and I both knew better than to bother forming any sort of attachment with other soldiers. _Especially_ No-Maj soldiers. You were just asking for emotional trauma if you let yourself get attached. I was here to fight, to help, nothing more.

“And then… Well, we were made to lead our own little squads and those plans went out the fucking window. For a moment, somewhere near the end of last year, maybe, after the lot of us had survived more than a year of this bullshit – I thought I could beat the odds, could keep all of them alive.”

Hadrian comes into view, leaves and dirt crunching under his feet. The man stops beside him, and though Percival feels his gaze, he stubbornly refuses to meet it.

“If nothing else, it made me realise something. If nothing else, it made me understand _you_ ,” Percival says, the words tasting like dust on his tongue. _That_ gets Hadrian’s attention. “How do you bear it? Watching so many die, guiding the infinite dead, when you were human once?”

“By reminding myself I am no longer human.”

Percival has been waiting for the trigger, for that _something_ to make him snap. It begs for release – that simmering, low-grade anger that has coiled itself beneath his skin the moment Hadrian had appeared. The emotionless, dismissive response just about does it. If Percival had a shred more decency in him at that moment, he would admit to baiting Hadrian for this very response. But he doesn’t.

“ _Precisely_ ,” he barely refrains from hissing, turning around sharply. Derision contorts his face and it is an ugly expression, Percival knows it is. He can _feel_ it. “You’re immortal, _inhuman_. To you, our lifetimes are mere seconds. Blink once and we’re no longer there. And that _frightens_ you, the idea that it’ll hurt when we’re gone. I really should have realised this a lot sooner – _commitment_ issues… how frustratingly human. You have half-assed this entire arrangement of ours because you’re so fucking afraid of forming a proper connection. You and your arbitrary rules. But the difference between us is that I took the fucking plunge despite knowing it was almost certain to end horribly. You could even say I had little choice – it was war, I had my orders. If I was going to see us through and _try_ to keep them alive for as long as I could, then emotional attachments were going to form anyway.

“But you – ” Percival gestures weakly at him. “You had a fucking _choice_! If you were truly so concerned about the repercussions of interfering too much, if you truly wanted little to do with the living, to adhere to whatever boundaries are set by your damn duties, you would never have offered my grandfather that favour. They’re all excuses for every instance where you’ve pulled back because you think you’re getting too attached, too close to the risk of _hurting_ when I’m dead and gone.

“Yes, you wanted to have your cake and _eat_ it, just enough human interaction but not _too_ much. Always ready to hold back on your oath when the need to flee chokes you. For something so other, you are still touch starved, still disappointingly _human_. So, you reached out on a whim, cautiously allowing yourself to _care,_ and you enjoyed the benefits of it, enjoyed _me_ – at least until this war reminded you so _unequivocally_ of my fucking mortality.”

The look on Hadrian’s face – Percival wishes he had maintained that damnable impassivity. It would be far easier for him to hold onto his anger if his traitorous heart didn’t soften at the raw, bone-weary vulnerability Hadrian deigns to reveal _now_ of all times.

“My compassion for you is inconvenient,” Hadrian says quietly.

Something shatters irreversibly in Percival. Against his will and thoroughly unwelcome, he is left shaken by waves of helpless despair.

“There’s no reason for this to go on,” Percival hears himself whisper. “Hadrian – ”

“You’re not wrong,” Hadrian interrupts. His voice wavers slightly before it evens out. “All that you’ve said – you’re not wrong. But do not reject the blood oath, Percy. Not yet.”

“But what’s the point?” Percival asks with a helpless shrug, cursing inwardly at the way his eyes begin to mist in response to Hadrian’s. Sweet Morgana, what a pair of miserable bastards. “Your honouring it is token at best. It must feel like shackles to you these days. Tell me I’m mistaken.”

Hadrian’s lips part, but no words follow. Denial is on the tip of his tongue, Percival can tell. But it is reflexive and would be _untrue_ if Hadrian gave voice to them. That he doesn’t, that Percival is right, hurts nonetheless.

Taking a deep breath, Percival squares his shoulders, and with a resolve he doesn’t actually feel, Percival bridges the gap between them. He reaches for Hadrian, inching slowly enough to give him the choice of stepping away. But he doesn’t. Instead, Hadrian leans in, gently encircles Percival’s wrists with his fingers.

Percival cradles Hadrian’s face in his hands.

“I’m sorry,” Hadrian breathes. “But just as you think there’s little point in leaving the blood oath untouched, there’s also little harm in letting it be. Don’t reject it, Percy.”

Percival leans down a little to press his forehead against Hadrian’s. Tenderly, he brushes his thumbs across Hadrian’s cheeks, and feels the hold on his wrists tighten in response.

It’s so hard to breathe.

“Alright,” Percival murmurs. “I won’t release you from your blood oath. I owe you that much for the times you’ve healed me. But hereafter I will expect nothing from you. I won’t call for you. I don’t want to think of you. I don’t want to see you.”

He feels a wetness upon his cheeks. With his eyes squeezed shut, Percival doesn’t know whose tears they are. He doesn’t care.

Percival tries to steady himself, tries to calm the racing of his heart. He finally opens his eyes and is met with Hadrian’s resigned despair. Unearthly green eyes have taken on a dull sheen, and Percival takes that observation like a stab to the chest.

Before he can reconsider the wisdom of his decision, Percival once again leans in. And when Hadrian merely looks calmly back at him, Percival presses their lips together briefly. He shifts, brushing his lips across Hadrian’s cheek.

Then, Percival pulls himself away. One step, then another, then another. Until he turns on his heel and does not look back.

Until the memorial ground stands silent and still once more.

 

\---

 

_ 1919 _

On the 3rd of January, Percival apparates into an alley a short distance away from the address written in the thin folder he’d been given upon his discharge. It’s the height of winter and the snow falls thick and blinding around him. Tugging the upturned collar of his coat more snugly about him, Percival walks with slow, deliberate steps towards the dull green door a street away.

He focuses on the light crunch of gathered snow beneath his boots, lets the cold, sharp air jolt his senses.

It takes a minute, of him standing stock still before the door, hand raised to knock.

But he eventually lets his knuckles rap smartly against the wood.

There’s shuffling behind the door, a murmured voice, then the door pulls back, rasping at its hinges.

Percival’s mind is slow to process the familiar face before him. The other man looks like he’s aged a decade in the months apart, shoulders hunched to shrink his large frame. Even so, he still looms over Percival, the great big bastard, and it’s this thought that makes him crack a smile.

“Sonuvabitch,” Tomlinson mutters, the corners of his lips tugging upwards sharply. It begins a little awkwardly, like it’s been ages since he’s used those muscles. And perhaps that’s not too far off from the truth.

He pulls the door open fully, not caring the least about the slight flurry of snowflakes that swoop into the house. Tomlinson takes a step forward and tugs Percival into a one-armed hug, thumping his back for good measure. Percival feels his breath forcibly leave his lungs with every thump, but it doesn’t dim the grin that his smile has widened into.

“Invite me into your hovel, Tomsy. I’m freezing over here.”

“Are all Yanks this _sensitive_?” the man snarks back even as he makes way for Percival.

He’s led to a tiny sitting room where he lowers himself onto an old, but clearly well-loved couch close to the fireplace. For a moment, both men simply stare at the other, assessing each other’s wellbeing and _not_ a little because they’re uncertain of what to say.

“Yer lookin’ a lot less half-dead, _sir_.”

“ _Cheers_ ,” Percival says dryly. “I’m honestly glad you made it, Tomlinson. Mostly in one piece?”

“Aye,” the other man says. “A couple of new scars here and there, and the knee’s a bitch in this weather, but otherwise… aye. Better than the rest, tha’s for sure.”

Percival involuntarily looks away for a second. “Were you there? It’s been hard to get a full report on what happened.”

“Some, yeah,” Tomlinson murmurs. “It were a fuckin’ mess after you took that shot of light. Baxe, bless him, he got hit when you did too. Didn’t make it. We was split up after that. Fletcher and me, we dragged you to cover, got you to the medic. Linked back up with Bryant and Williams. Found Morris and Lee after that fight. A bit worse fer wear but we stuck it through. We couldn’t find Moore. When you were out fer the count, the group were disbanded and we got shuffled around. Heard later on that Bryant and Williams got themselves caught in a bombardment. Not sure what got Fletcher or Morris in the end.”

Percival barely breathes.

“I saw Lee, though. So fucking stupid, Graves. So _fucking_ stupid. He shouldn’t have died,” Tomlinson’s voice wavers. He rubs his great paw of a hand across his eyes. There’s an aborted move to return his hand to the armrest, but he twitches it back and continues to idly massage closed lids. His eyelashes glisten a little, catching in the firelight.

“The bastards were surrendering one by one. It was about to end, we all knew that. Some of us was getting cocky, I suppose. We wasn’t even at the front lines. One of them rest days, y’know? He got a bit drunk, then real pissed off. Just one of those things. Went wanderin’ about. I was nearby enough that I heard it, _saw_ the fuckin’ dust clouds and bits of dirt and – and  _him_. A fuckin’ landmine.”

Tomlinson’s eyes are red-rimmed and seem to reflect the same crippling exhaustion Percival feels far too often these days.

“Some days, I wish I could just forget all of it.”

“Do you?”

Percival hates himself a little for leaping at the unintentional opening.

Tomlinson’s gaze sharpens.

“…is that why yer here, sir? And here I was hoping ya wanted to say hullo.”

The teasing falls flat, hitting far too close to home. Percival meets Tomlinson’s eyes, unflinching and firm. Dropping all occlumency shields, Percival lets his vulnerability and sincerity bleed through.

“I did. I wanted nothing more than to get in touch with the families of the others. The fucking least that I owed them was a personal visit and condolences. But my government has me by the fucking _balls_ , Tomlinson.”

“That fucked up law of yers, aye? That secrecy thing.”

“Yes. And I am _bound_ by a promise I made to a dear friend of mine, a childhood friend of mine who’s been dead set on seeing herself come to power. With the mess of this war, and the not so secret aid she provided, which was very much in line with public opinion as the years wore on, there’s a huge chance she’ll make it in the coming election.”

“She? You bastards don’t give a shit about women being in power, but ya so shit scared of us knowing about you lot? That’s mad, Graves.”

“I know. Mercy fucking Lewis do I know.”

“What's this about forgettin’, then?”

“The present administration’s swan song. They want all No-Majs, non-magical individuals, who were in contact with the magical world to be obliviated. Memories wiped. And they have their eye on me, specifically. I’m… _known_ , in my community.”

Tomlinson huffs, a weak chuckle, but a chuckle just the same. “' _K_ _nown’_ , he says.”

“I have to be seen obeying their bloody decree, Tomsy. It’s not just my position, it’s how closely I’m associated with my friend. I cannot be something to be leveraged against her campaign.”

“Ya sure it's your government that has you by the balls and not her, mate?”

“It haunts me every time I realise I’m a day closer to that distinction meaning _nothing_.”

There’s a pause, then. Percival lets it rest as long as Tomlinson needs, lets him mull it over – not that Percival will be able to let him settle on anything but what MACUSA expects out of this visit. Even so…

“Is she worth it?” Tomlinson eventually asks. “This obedience and loyalty of yers. Think she’ll do actual good despite already makin’ you jump through these bullshit hoops?”

“I used to believe she is, yes. With absolute certainty,” Percival answers carefully, honestly. “But I’m uncertain what the war has changed. For now, I have to continue believing she is.”

“You’ll be her right hand, then? Keep an eye on her too?”

Percival nods firmly.

Tomlinson heaves a heavy sigh. It ends with a small, sad smile.

“D’you have a lil’ more time to kill ‘fore ya have to get on with it, though?”

Percival has to feel the bite of his nails digging into his palm to force back the prickling sensation creeping behind his eyes.

“Of course, Tomsy,” he croaks out. He follows with a soft, self-conscious laugh. “All the time in the world.”

He stays. For far, far longer than intended – until the sun begins to set, then disappears entirely behind the clouds and they’re forced to light a few fat candles about the small house. Percival feels little need to hold back, given what is about to happen, and he entertains Tomlinson a little with simple non-verbal fire spells.

He stays, remembers to thank him for finding and returning the necklace to him. They talk about everything and then nothing.

When Percival leaves, it is close to midnight, and his breath comes as thick white puffs in the night air.

_“It's been an honour, sir. Make us proud.”_

Percival feels numb as he walks away, footsteps a little shaky and altogether unnaturally loud in the still, freezing silence. He’s run out of tears to shed.

Seraphina expects his loyalty, his sacrifices – just as much as MACUSA and the rest of wizarding America will. Ever has there been a Graves casting a watchful eye over their people. Wasn’t that what his grandfather repeated often enough?

Then so be it.

Percival will steel his heart, will never lower his shields for another again.

He will be Seraphina’s weapon. He will keep his people safe.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First things first: TARFU – it’s one of those FUBAR equivalents that unfortunately only seem to have come about in the 1940s. But it’s so damn perfect I had to use it in the story even though its about 2-3 decades too early. OH WELL.
> 
> “My compassion for you is inconvenient” – A’ight, ya girl has a feeling there are readers out there who’s familiar with the dark miracle that is Bryan Fuller’s Hannibal. Unashamed use of an iconic af line because perfect is painfully perfect. And yaaaaas, the last few things Percy says to Hadrian is heavily influenced and borrowed from Will’s last words to Hanni in season 3 episode 7
> 
> A lot, and I mean A LOT of the fighting scenes and the description of the early versions of the mass graves/memorials are pretty much from my imagination. The main events themselves, i.e. the 30th division’s involvement at the Battle of the Lys, and the chronology should, broadly speaking, be accurate per what research I had the time to scrounge up. But fuller descriptions of the individual and specific battles that took place during that Fourth Battles of Ypres is a little sparse and I had to make it up or remain stalled. 
> 
> Again, I mean no offence whatsoever by any inaccuracies and conjecture. I’m also tremendously glad to be done with writing WWI. I’ll just stick to enjoying the documentaries and historically accurate non-fiction books rather than go through this mess again, thank you very much. Aaaand Act One is officially done. Sweet Christ. It has to get worse before it gets better. Not gonna lie, I was probably already rather emotional because of some RL stuff, but I actually found myself tearing up as I wrote the final scene of this chapter – which has never happened before, and which I used to think was something other authors were half-joking about, if not outright exaggerating. Just look at this current writing process making me experience all sorts of new thangs. Thanks for reading!


	6. Interlude: The Platform

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Peachy keen."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> She lives. I know, boy do I know it has almost been three months. But here's the much struggled-with interlude. 
> 
> Massive disclaimer that a few phrases / lines have been repurposed or re-worked from The Sandman, The Sound of Her Wings by the incredible Neil Gaiman. 
> 
> Much longer, rambling notes at the end!

“What’cha doing?”

 

He turns to the stranger, the impossible stranger who joins him on the little steps just off the platform. She comes to him, porcelain white skin in stark contrast to her raven black mane of hair and clothing. At the end of a long bit of string, a silver ankh rests just below her chest.

 

 _A familiar stranger_ , something whispers in his mind. And just as it’d been at the start of this infernal mess, he just _knows_.

 

“Nothing.”

 

“You’ve been doing an awful lot of watching,” she says cheerfully. “Rather, an awful lot of pointed _not_ watching.”

 

He turns sharply to glare at her. But her face is open – it’d just been an observation, plain and simple, so he swallows his acerbic reply.

 

“Okay,” she drags the word, wiggling her feet where they lie outstretched before her. “So, what’s the matter?”

 

“I don’t know what you mean.”

 

“I _mean_ what’s the matter? I _mean_ this conversation is sounding uncannily like the one I had _a lifetime ago_ with my little brother – well, I suppose _our_ little brother…or perhaps not. Point is, you’re sitting here moping and doing a stellar impression of Dream.”

 

“None of what you just said made any sense.”

 

She flaps a pale hand at him, lips poised as if to blow a raspberry at him.

 

“Why are you here?” He turns away. “I’ve never even seen you before. _You’ve_ never bothered before. Why now?”

 

“That’s not true. I was there the second time you arrived at the station.”

 

“You were faded, then,” he pauses with a frown, drawing on memories centuries past. “Were – were you in a top hat, skipping away with something?”

 

“An umbrella,” she hums sweetly in response. “It was the beginning and having my items of power gathered on this plane must have been new to you. All of this has always been about balance.”

 

“And you’re here _now_ because…?”

 

“You truly have no idea?”

 

“I tire of this. Answer or don’t, I couldn’t care less.”

 

“ _That_ ,” she says immediately, all traces of humour vanishing. “I’m here, now, because you no longer care. Or, if we want to be _specific_ , you’re on the precipice of convincing yourself that you no longer care. Successfully, I mean – that it’s easier to just focus on what you think are Death’s responsibilities.”

 

Gritting his teeth, he gives her his attention once more.

 

“Guiding dying souls to the afterlife, ensuring that I don’t meddle in the affairs of the living – what more? You’re still speaking in riddles. Half-riddles, maybe. But still riddles.”

 

“ _Dunderhead_ ,” she chides, entirely aware of how the choice of word sends a pinprick of pain through his chest. “If you listened, you’d know I’m not. The only way I could be clearer is if I were to write it out word for word and slap it on my forehead in neon lights, but that would be _dull_.”

 

After a sullen pause, her shoulders slump and she heaves a sigh of such great suffering that can only be found when dealing with the young.

 

“I don’t usually do this. I’d sooner just continue on my merry little holiday until I become just _me_ again. But here you are, and here I am, separate and one because you’re my favourite of the greedy idiots that have come before me bearing my items of power. Unlike the string of fools that came before you, so quick to think themselves apart from the mortals, to think they’re – I mean, they _are_ , _we_ are indescribably different. We came _before_ the gods, but there’s no need to be all high and mighty about it,” she grumbles with a roll of her silver eyes. “But _you_ , I’ve been watching you, Wonder Boy, and you’ve never given up your humanity, your little hero complex.”

 

“And because I can’t let go, I’m your favourite?” He narrows his eyes.

 

“Close,” she sing-songs. “You simply need to find the balance. You’re my favourite because you’re the only one who has ever come close to _understanding_ what it takes, who might just become an aspect of us.”

 

“I – But how can there be a balance? I’ve _tried_! You say you’ve watched me; then you must know. I’ve tried to live as I once was, but they aged and died, and I still took their hand and was left alone once again. This time around, I’ve tried to pull back, but it just – ”

 

“You haven’t accepted what we are, Wonder Boy. Your Percival was right, you know. You were half-assing it. But I can’t quite blame you because you can’t possibly know what you don’t know. Y’know?”

 

He feels his left eye twitch.

 

“When I was you, before I became us, I would send a part of me to live and die as a mortal would for a day. To understand. It is the only way to _be_ when you were made to exist till the end of time.”

   
She wiggles her eyebrows suggestively.

 

“It will still hurt when I eventually take his hand.”

 

“Yes,” she says. “Yes, it will hurt. It will be bittersweet the way death often is. But he _and you_ would have gotten what anybody gets – a lifetime. Some of the greatest things have been born of experiences that have brought both great pain and joy. Doesn’t a certain wand-wavy spell of yours come to mind?”

 

When he takes too long to offer any sort of response, she blithely leans her way into his personal space and prods his ribs.

 

“You’re my favourite, Wonder Boy, so here I am telling you that you’ve arrived at the crossroads. Accept who we are and the gifts we have and live, or... well. Y’know.”

 

“How much time do I have?”

 

“You’ll know. But, for both our sakes, make the decision sooner rather than later? You’ve been staring-not-staring at the same grain of wood since your Percival shoved your necklace into that drawer – and honestly, hun, it’s a little pathetic.”

 

She rises to her feet, brushing off invisible dirt and dust from her bottom.

 

“Besides, dramatic things are about to happen awful quick.”

 

He’s left alone on the little steps just off the ghostly platform, with the afterimage of her impish grin and too much to think about. But he grudgingly admits relief at her words, the possibilities before him are worth the tedious, exhausting contemplation – now that he knows what he hadn’t known, indeed.

 

The lone presence at the station shimmers away.

 

And the pillars and the platforms and the benches and the lights twist into themselves and there is nothing but white space once more.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right. Hullo. As you can tell, any restraint I had in meshing in the Endless has been flung tf away. After stewing for very long over how best to shape this without being too, too painfully on the nose (I fear this chapter is bad enough, and could've been much worse in this regard), the scene struck me two nights ago when I recalled the beautiful introduction to Dream's older sister in the chapter, The Sound of Her Wings. 
> 
> This turned out a lot, lot differently from the notes that have been sitting in my phone for the past few months. Ah well. 
> 
> My sincerest gratitude to all the new readers who have been popping by, and to my readers who have stuck with me through the increasingly dodgy update schedules. I'll now go answer the comments from the previous chapter because I've been absolute trash with time since I graduated and started this life / free-time destroying job. Thank you for your patience, dearest reader, and see you in the next one!


	7. Act 2.1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Curtain's up on Act 2. Friggin finally!

_ December 1925 _

 

New York saw its first snowfall of the season earlier this morning.

 

And Tina Goldstein cannot possibly feel any happier as she walks the last few blocks from the old apartment she shares with her sister to the beautiful and imposing Woolworth building. There’s just _something_ about the sharp, crisp wintry air that never fails to leave Tina feeling refreshed.

 

Snow crunches beneath her as she darts across the road, raising a gloved hand in gratitude at the car that slows down for her. Absently, Tina reaches down to tug loose the belted knot of her coat, knowing all too well how much warmer it will be in a moment.

 

“Good morning, Mr Paisley!” Tina chirps as she side-steps the rush of people leaving the revolving doors.

 

“Mornin’ Miss Tina,” the man replies far more languorously, though he pulls open the side door at just the right moment for her to hurry through. “Mind that you don’t slip on no black ice when you go skitterin’ across busy roads like that.”

 

Tina laughs good-naturedly at the older man’s usual chiding. “I’ll be careful, Mr Paisley. You have yourself a good day, now!”

 

With practised ease, she weaves her way through the bustling ground floor of MACUSA, slipping between the small clusters of children on excursion, then up the short flights of stairs to the mezzanine. Tina rounds the corner lined with benches and the odd house elf grumpily offering polishing services. She waits patiently as the enchanted messages swoop low in their flight path before veering off in formation up and up toward the upper levels of the massive building.

 

Tina joins the few other office workers waiting for the elevator. Unlike the others, however, she has a smile ready for the old house elf who’s operated the elevators since its introduction to the wizarding world. The others shift impatiently as the old metal gate creaks open to reveal the wrinkly, ever-frowning face of –

 

“Morning, Red!”

 

“Goldstein,” he answers with a nod. Red shoots everybody a dirty look when they pack themselves into the carriage, grumbling the entire time.

 

“Might be a big ‘un, Goldstein,” Red says without a care for how his voice is rings loud in the tiny space. One of the witches (merlin, she must be new) has the guts to level a haughty glare at him. “Big Boss came in righ’ early.”

 

“Did he?” Tina answers quietly. She’d rather endure the scowls than risk pissing off Red. Honestly, that woman has no idea what she’s guaranteed herself for the rest of her career here when she’d clicked her tongue at Red. “Think it’s a Code G-1 or G-2? Did he say g’morning to you?”

 

“Nope.”

 

She takes a fortifying breath.

 

“That’d be a G-2, then.”

 

 

\---

 

 

Tina had joined the Aurors fresh out of Ilvermorny. It was 1918 and with the end of the No-Maj war, the time had come to slowly pick up the pieces, to re-group. MACUSA had been all too eager with its recruitment efforts. As much as they’d have liked to keep up the illusion of Wizarding America remaining largely unaffected by the turmoil in No-Maj America, the numbers spoke for themselves. There were more personnel with No-Maj ties in MACUSA than had been let on, and a significant number had either joined the war efforts directly or taken an indefinite leave of absence to care for the No-Maj side of their families in the aftermath. There were gaps and they needed manpower.

 

Six months of training later, and Tina liked to think she was still the same bright-eyed, optimistic trainee she’d been at the start. Still eager to learn, still earnest, but better prepared to stand her ground. None of her instructors, no matter how scarred and gnarled, no matter how much they seemed to prefer shouting over talking, had intimidated her.

 

Until she met the last Graves.

 

Percival Graves was a legend. A war hero. And in hushed whispers, a bit of a dissident.

 

Tina had been aware, of course, when conclusive evidence had made its way to the papers that Percival Graves had been at the front lines all along and had been positively identified as a patient at St. Mungo’s. Against MACUSA policy, he’d been one of many who’d nevertheless sneaked over to England to join the war efforts.

 

The press had had a field day when word arrived that he was being transferred home.

 

By some unknown miracle (Tina would bet her purse that it was the efforts of Madame President), the newspapers had only printed that Graves was in a medically induced coma and remained in critical condition. Long, gossipy story short, to the surprise of _nobody_ , Graves had stridden right back into MACUSA sometime in early 1919, long, black overcoat billowing, and his smart three-piece _No-Maj_ suit beautifully concealing his too thin frame.

 

There were altogether too many curious and somewhat overawed witnesses to his brief meeting with Head Auror Jameson. Whether by calculated design or simple mistake, the door to Jameson’s office had been left open _just_ a smidge. Enough for meddlesome aurors to try their luck and cast an eavesdropping spell, only to be pleasantly surprised that it worked.

 

Sure, there was somebody else in Graves’ old position now. He’d been absent for almost four years, after all. _Of_ _course_ , he understood that the Department couldn’t be expected to bow to his whims, _war hero_ or not. _Yes_ , he was certainly willing to accept even the opportunity to re-join the Aurors on Jameson’s goodwill. _Certainly,_ sir, _thank you_ , sir.

 

As far as a large part of the Department was concerned, however, the most important thing was that there was a Graves amongst the Aurors once more. Enough of the senior aurors had either gone through basic training with him or had worked closely enough with him to have done nothing but wax poetic about the man both before and after his return. There might be somebody in his position, but everybody knew it wouldn’t be for long. His stand-in could hardly match up to him.

 

The war may have left Percival Graves with somewhat pre-mature streaks of distinguished silver in his hair, left him gaunt and looking a tad peaky, but it had done nothing to diminish his presence. For all that it was polite to be conscious of leaking one’s magic all over the place, whatever little amount of Graves’ magic that could not be muffled still sent shivers down one’s spine. A senior auror had once described it as the false lull before a thunderstorm, when the air is thin and unusually cool, and the _stillness_ speaks to that primitive part of you and it screams _danger_. 

 

But we’re getting a little ahead of ourselves.

 

It was 1919 and Tina had not expected to be partnered with Percival fucking Graves while he served his probationary year. Tina also hadn’t expected, though she really should have, just how much of a toll the war had taken on him.

 

Percival Graves was every bit as impressive a wizard as the stories had made him out to be, but as a man? Not so much.

 

“It felt about as normal as brushing against a cactus, Teeny,” her sister had whispered harshly to her once. “Except that cactus had shards of broken glass for spikes. That man’s mind is a broken fortress, Teeny, repaired too quickly so ‘s all jagged edges, fragile but functional.” Tina might have let it go if that were all, but something about the way Queenie had been so shaken, so afraid… It took a good week of well-meaning badgering before her sister gave in and revealed what she’d been holding back.

 

Graves had unsurprisingly been one of very few who’d picked up on Queenie being a Legilimens.  She’d barely brushed against his mind before Graves had whirled on her, magic surging around him like an oppressive shroud. His sharp, grey eyes had levelled the iciest stare at Queenie before he’d turned the tables on her. Graves had hurtled into _her_ mind just long enough for her to hear a voice hissing, low and insidious, the clear warning to _“Stay. Out.”_

It was, in the sisters’ opinions, the most extreme reaction to Queenie’s natural talent to date.

 

Graves was about as stable as a box of feral cats, and as much as Tina had felt the urge to voice some sort of formal request to Human Resources or _somebody_ , because surely a shell-shocked veteran who jumped at loud noises and was powerful enough to be a one-man army shouldn’t be on active duty. At least not without receiving some sort of aid – but resources were low and Graves apparently too valuable to bench, risk or not.

 

So, loud noises. It was a problem.

 

Until it suddenly _wasn’t_.

 

Tina remembers the day she’d passed by his old office, way back when it’d been little more than a glorified broom closet, grander than the bullpen but not by much, and nearly tripped over her feet at his disgruntled expression. Cautiously, she’d rapped her knuckles lightly on his door before stepping in. The offending object had turned out to be a _book_ , a book on Animagi that had been blasted to hell and back with every detection spell Graves knew.

 

“I always thought it’d be neat to be able to turn into an animal. Leave all that heavy thinking and fretting by the wayside, y’know?”

 

All she’d gotten for her unsolicited remark was a raised brow, though the man had continued to glare at the book sitting innocuously on his desk. Bit rude, that. But Tina had shrugged and gone on her merry way.

 

She caught him with his nose buried in the book a week later.

 

And as time wore on, she watched as the book began to show signs of wear and tear… and then _over-use_ , with its cracked spine, blunted corners and what looked like a million loose bits of paper tucked between various pages. Admittedly, her auror-worthy nosiness demanded to know who could have unsettled Graves badly enough just by sending a gift – but Tina knew there wasn’t a snowball’s chance in hell that she’d get an answer.

 

So, she settled for quietly obsessing over whether he was hoping to add to the incredibly short list of registered Animagi in Wizarding America. And just what animal he would be. With the man’s not-so-secretly overprotective instincts and incongruously icy demeanour, Tina imagined he might make a commendable lion. Or _one_ of those big cats. Though, knowing the universe’s sense of humour, Graves would probably turn out to be a tabby cat.

 

She’d been right. _And_ wrong.

 

It happened during their last mission together, before Graves assumed the full mantle of leading the Department of Magical Law Enforcement as President Picquery’s Director of Magical Security. It was meant to be a simple track and arrest case, just an easy assignment to mark the end of an almost two-year partnership.

 

“Let’s get this wrapped up, Goldstein. I’m buying us a drink when we’re done,” Graves had said, waving the thin folder at her as he sauntered past her desk. Tina might have cursed the man for his choice of words, because the bullpen _naturally_ erupted in whispers that were even more aggressive than they usually were.

 

“Sir, we don’t actually know what the unregistered animagus turns into, do we?”

 

“No, so don’t spook the bastard, Goldstein,” Graves murmured once they’d apparated to the nearest No-Maj Free zone. “He leaves his usual speakeasy, and we apprehend him. No muss no fuss.”

 

“Really wish you’d retire that phrase, sir,” Tina grumbled.

 

They disillusioned themselves and waited in the ridiculously cold night, tucked close to the edge of the alleyway. After an interminable hour of awkward shifting by Tina to get some warmth back into her extremities, she heard her superior huff in frustration. A warm, ticklish trickle quickly followed from head to toe.

 

“You’re a _witch_ , Goldstein. How many damn times are you going to forget a warming charm?”

 

Tina blamed the miserable weather for messing with the filter that usually existed between her thoughts and what actually tumbled out of her mouth, because what escaped was, “How else would I know you cared, sir?”

 

“For fuck’s sake,” Graves had snarled with unexpected venom.

 

Before Tina could whirl around to apologise profusely for her quip, the man had abruptly darted past her, staring down the poorly lit street.

 

“That paranoid bastard,” she heard him say. Oh. Oh, Merlin damn it.

 

“Did you see what his form was?”

 

“Something aggravatingly small,” he said. Graves looked over his shoulder and narrowed his eyes at her. “This remains classified, Goldstein.”

 

Tina watched as the man shrank and the lines of his body warped in an indistinguishable blur of the dark of his coat and patches of white that grew increasingly dominant. _Of course,_ MACUSA’s prized powerhouse would be granted special treatment, a registered animagus whose registration was apparently redacted and classified. That git. Tina just _knew_ that Graves knew she’d been keeping an eye on that Register ever since she’d caught him engrossed in that damn book.

 

There was barely any time to process what she was seeing before Graves took off, leaving her with just the afterimage of a very thick, furry tail and _spots_. Tina was left behind, flopping her wand arm ineffectually and feeling foolish. _Honestly_. She trotted after him in a light jog for the sake of appearance.

 

Tina slowed to a halt when an alarmed squeak cut through the quiet night. A few minutes spent idly tapping her foot against the asphalt, and a white figure emerged from the shadows of one of the alleyways. Graves approached on silent paws. He was much stockier in this form, short legs but no less powerful from the look of the shifting muscles beneath gorgeously thick white fur dotted with black spots and larger rosettes across his back. His muzzle was also shorter, and his forehead domed in comparison to the lions and tigers Tina had seen at the No-Maj zoos. It was, however, the hypnotic and adorably furry tail that was almost as long as he was that caught Tina’s attention.

 

Until he rumbled at her.

 

Tina’s eyes darted back to piercing grey eyes, and despite the lack of human features, Tina could read him just fine. He was preening a little at her slack-jawed appreciation. But, for the most part, he was unimpressed with her.

 

In his mouth, Graves kept a hold on a dirty grey mouse that was probably so frightened it didn’t dare struggle.

 

“I was certain you’d be a tabby cat, sir.”

 

Graves growled, eyes narrowed in annoyance. The mouse squeaked, trembling anew. He prowled past her on his giant, fluffy paws and made certain to hip-check her. Hard.

 

Tina stumbled, but took the reproach with grace.

 

 

-x-

 

 

Percival Graves wasn’t the _least_ emotive individual at MACUSA. No, that particular honour went to Auror Stevenson, whose face was so stuck in a scowl that Tina was convinced a smile would actually crack it. Still, Graves did keep a very, very tight lid on his emotions. It was by sheer necessity as a workaholic that Tina had discerned his some of his tells after spending nearly every waking moment with him during his probation.  

 

If he said even a single sentence to her that wasn’t strictly work-related, it meant that he’d had more than his usual three hours of miserable sleep. Yes, Tina knew more about his non-existent sleep cycle than she was comfortable knowing, but such was life as partners. If he gave her a small frown, chances were that he was simply tired or merely concentrating. A deep frown, and Tina hadn’t been focusing and she was being a nuisance for having him repeat himself. If his face was wiped of all emotion, and his voice brought low and _soft_ , Tina knew she’d fucked up spectacularly. On those blessedly rare occasions, Tina would much rather Graves were the sort who yelled, rather than subject her to that utterly terrifying soft-spoken tactic of his.

 

Tina hadn’t _entirely_ been joking the night of their last mission. It took time, even after he was no longer her partner but rather her boss – well, _everyone’s_ boss, to square with the fact that Graves did care as the senior aurors swore to Merlin he did. He just did so with actions rather than words.

 

In the beginning, she’d been indignant when Graves would take a large chunk of her paperwork on Fridays and stubbornly refused to listen to her protests. He’d conveniently disappear with the work when six o’clock rolled around and Tina was eventually forced to agree it’d be foolish for her to linger in the office unnecessarily when she could finally be spending time with her sister.

 

She’d confronted him after it’d continued to happen for several weeks, all but demanding whether the Great Percival Graves thought her so inept and inefficient that he felt things would go faster if he just did it all himself. Graves had responded placidly, meeting her self-righteous fury with infuriating calm as he’d said, “No. You mentioned how lonely your sister is, and how much you worry about her. That’s all.”

 

Tina had gaped at him, torn between thinking him a patronising liar and simply believing him. Rationality won in the end, because Tina knew that Graves was painfully blunt with his words and reserved his mask only for politicians and Head Auror Jameson.

 

She’d idly mentioned this exchange to one of the secretaries at lunch one day, only for her to be overheard by the woman who’d been _Graves’_ secretary back when he’d been Deputy Head Auror. The woman had vouched for her former boss in hushed tones, staring Tina unnervingly in the eye as she told her of something similar that Graves had done for her.

 

“As far as I know, Auror Goldstein, Auror Graves doesn’t begrudge anybody the desire to spend time with family just ‘cause he doesn’t have any. That man is a mama bear – not that you heard it from me. He is generous and kind and downright protective. Well, if he likes you, I mean.” Miss Kelly had squinted at her through her glasses. “I don’t think you’ve pissed him off irreparably. Yet.”

 

Tina didn’t see him quite as much once President Picquery was sworn in and Auror Graves became _Director of Magical Security_ , _Head_ _Auror_ Graves. The handful of times she’d run in to him, Tina was always a little relieved to see the pinched expression, that had so characterised the first year of his return, had faded considerably. He’d usually unclench enough to grace her with a minuscule smile when she’d dare to greet him openly.

 

Graves still swooped into the bullpen every now and then, some days it was to check in with her workload, other days it was to chase her butt out of the office if she’d been pulling almost a week’s worth of late nights. To the bewilderment of Tina, Graves had remained her Supervising Auror on paper even as he ascended to his new positions and another senior auror had been added alongside his name as her mentor. He’d told she was still his responsibility, even if she rarely reported to him directly in the years that followed. Tina believed it was also part of a half-baked excuse he’d use to flee whenever President Picquery was getting overbearing – that and the vain bastard probably liked the ruckus he caused whenever he descended on the bullpen.

 

On one memorable occasion, Graves had stalked through the rows of little office desks, visibly agitated even if his face betrayed nothing. He’d taken a breath, only for his words to seemingly die at the harried expression on Tina’s face. It’d been a terrible few weeks and she’d been worked to the bone, staving off numerous hysterical breakdowns every other day and it was impossible for her to hide it by that point. Red-eyed and slightly manic, Tina had been the one to break the silence.

 

“Can I help you, sir?”

 

“Walk with me.”

 

“What?” She’d spluttered, casting a very pointed look at the veritable mountain of papers and open folders littered around her.

 

“Drop what you’re doing and walk with me.”

 

“But Auror Thessaly needs – ”

 

“ _Now_ , Goldstein.”

 

Ignoring the prickling of tears gathering behind her closed eyes, Tina dropped whatever she was reading to grab her jacket and hurry after Graves. The feeling of being watched by the rest of the aurors just made it all the more difficult to fight back the stupid tears.

 

Graves didn’t say anything to her until they were several blocks away from the Woolworth Building. He’d stopped outside a No-Maj diner and ushered her in with a gentle press to her arm. Without asking, Graves ordered hot chocolates for both of them. It was only when he’d pressed a warm mug into her hands that he asked her what the hell was going on.

 

“It’s just a bad week.”

 

“Right. Except, I’ve never seen you this close to crying just because of a bad week. Is it your sister?”

 

“No!” Tina had yelped. “I – I don’t want to tattle on anybody, sir.”

 

“And I can admire that, Goldstein,” Graves said, taking a small sip of his drink. “So, tell me what the hell’s been on your plate for the past two weeks.”

 

Tina knew what he was doing – she wouldn’t be ratting anybody out if she was merely telling a… a colleague about the various cases she was on. It wouldn’t be on her if it just _happened_ to be that her colleague knew every single ongoing case file in the department because every single case file had to pass his desk. It was still uncomfortable, though.

 

“Sir…”

 

“Fine. Let me ask something else – how many people are you working for at the moment?”

 

“Four,” she murmured.

 

“Are you aware that you’re not supposed to be loaned out to other teams without it being cleared with your Supervising Auror?”

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

“And was it cleared with your Supervising Auror?”

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

“Did you volunteer for any of this?”

 

“Only one, sir. Because I knew Gillian was drowning and I had the capacity at the time. Sir.”

 

“Did you bring to the attention of your Supervising Auror that you’re in over your head?”

 

“… yes, sir.”

 

Graves leaned back in his seat with a single nod.

 

“Finish your hot cocoa, Goldstein.”

 

Tina was afraid that Graves would kick up a huge fuss after their little chat. It was the last thing she needed, and she spent the rest of the week waiting for the other shoe to drop. Only, it never did. She completed the assignments, exhausted beyond all comprehension by the end of it. But she’d gotten it done. Tina spent that night venting to Queenie in a helpless mess of frustrated tears, letting herself be soothed by her sister’s gentle hand as it carded through her hair.

 

The week after, and the week after _that_ , there was no noticeable change to Auror Thessaly. It was an observation that had Tina feeling both relief and helpless dread. Until she realised that as time went on, she was never foisted off to another team without first being asked if she had the capacity. There were bad weeks, those were always going to exist, but none ever came close to _that_ Bad Week.

 

She ran into Graves about a month after, standing just outside his office as he and President Picquery spoke in quiet voices. His eyes flickered to her as she walked by. On a whim, Tina mouthed the words ‘thank you’ to him. The laugh lines around his eyes crinkled just a little, and he gave her an almost imperceptible nod. Tina looked away and quickened her pace as Madame President looked over her shoulder, no doubt curious about what had drawn her companion’s attention. Handling Graves was one thing – handling the combined intensity of Ilvermorny’s Power Duo wasn’t something she’d signed up for just yet, thank you very much.

 

Tina really didn’t think there was a need for Miss Kelly to look so awfully smug when she dropped into the seat opposite her in the cafeteria later that day.

 

“Heard about that little exchange, Goldstein. Don’t worry about that not so subtle escape from Madame President,” the woman said, daintily stabbing her lunch.

 

“How could you _possibly_ know about that?”

 

“Are you doubting the Secretarial Network, Goldstein?”

 

“… No, ma’am.”

 

“Good,” Miss Kelly said. “Anyway. Welcome to Graves’ Brood. Don’t do anything monumentally stupid, and _we’ll_ always have your back too.”

 

 

\---

 

 

The white corridor lined with the offices of those high up in the food chain zip past her as Tina hurries on, two coffees in hand. She’s walked this route every morning since her induction to The Brood, not that anybody dared breathe a word of it to the man himself.

 

“Good morning, Sir!” Tina says, popping her head through the half-open doorway of his office.

 

She waits for Graves to lift his eyes from the documents he’s already poring over, the impassive but nevertheless amply longsuffering expression on his face ever so familiar. Oh, what would her routine be without it.

 

“Good morning, Goldstein. Please assault somebody else with your morning cheer. It’s indecent and has no place at the meeting later, am I clear?”

 

“ _Yes, sir_.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who caught the homage to when Merrill made a cheeky af burn (re: Fenris) in DA:2? I swear I laughed myself off the chair when I first heard it in the background as I'd been steering Hawke through Hightown. 
> 
> I've read a number of fics that had Percy as a leopard or jaguar. And having him be some type of big cat just felt perfect. Soooo this is my take on him being a snow leopard. The very best reason to be watching hour long documentaries on these glorious creatures. 
> 
> Ya girl also finally watched the first Fantastic Beasts movie and ... let's just say she's taken some artistic liberties re-imagining how Woolworth / MACUSA looked like inside and how it operated.


	8. Act 2.2

**EDIT:** guys - I don't think I've ever had to do this - but I've taken down the newly uploaded chapter 8 because one of the comments to the chapter really made me pause and think if it was wise to have gone ahead with a particular angle.  Call it negligence and just over-eagerness to produce an update, I managed to overlook the original outline I had for this chapter and the future chapters such that none of it would have made sense / been plausible moving forward, if I choose to stick with the chapter 8 I'd uploaded.  So, sincere apologies for this, but I hope to re-upload the amended chapter 8 in a few days!  (Thanks SilverHowl55 for the comment!)


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